As noted, the Jinming Residential Complex sits in the city’s heart, an upscale island of quiet in the central district’s sea of glass.

It’s not mountains and rivers, but there’s a sizable man‑made lake, a mirror laid under the sky.

On its shore sit a kindergarten and a clubhouse, dressed in luxury with jade‑cool taste, like pavilions set by water.

They serve more than residents; their reach rolls like ripples across half the central district.

With a place this fancy comes the usual sealed gates, a fortress with steel teeth.

At the distant gate, security stands like stone lions; everyone entering or leaving flashes a card like a talisman.

Ye Weibai rifled Bai Ye’s memories with a wry chill, only to find his pockets dry as a riverbed—no gate card.

It’s not yet eleven; the clock knocks like a cold drum, and Bai Rong and his wife are at work.

Their kid is in grade school, a sparrow in class; the home sits like an empty shell, no one to let him in.

He could call, sure; the numbers rest like old coins in his phone, but the thought tastes like bitter tea.

“So why not call?” Mu Ling’s voice skips like a pebble on water. “Senior, it’s your older brother’s place, right? Are things that bad?”

“Not bad,” Ye Weibai said, calm as a settled pond. “I came expecting this, clouds parted in my head.”

“What do you mean?” Mu Ling blinked like a sparrow in rain. “You snuck here on purpose?”

“Bingo.” His eyes flashed like fish scales catching light, and he tugged the little girl toward the side like a reed bending.

“Senior… what are you doing?” Mu Ling stared; under the wall he crouched like a cat itching to spring.

“You can see it, can’t you? We climb over.”

He eyed the crooked tree by the wall, bark rough as old rope, and jumped to hook the branch like a hook on a beam.

His waist strained like rusty machinery; legs scissored up, and after a small war he perched on the wall like a tired crow.

This body Bai Ye left is hollowed by smoke and wine, wood chewed by termites; even a wall leaves Ye Weibai wheezing like a torn bellows.

Only then does it hit him like a cold wind: his young soul rides an old lantern, a forty‑plus body prone to hangovers.

He finally evens out his breath, a tide settling, and glances down; the girl stands hands on hips like a tiny general.

“Come on, climb in.”

She pointed at her plaid skirt, fabric rippling like a shallow brook. “Senior, I’m in a short skirt.”

“It’s fine. No one’s passing; the lane’s empty as dusk.”

“That’s not the point!” Her cheeks flared like cherries. “How could a young lady do something that shameful in public?”

“It’s okay.” Ye Weibai sighed like wind through reeds, bent down, and offered his hand like a bridge. “I’ll pull you. Blink and we’re done.”

The girl froze, a finch startled from a branch, her gaze locked on his right hand like moonlight on water.

Her lips moved, unspoken words crumbling like dry leaves, then she lowered her head and swallowed the moment like a crushed seed.

“No.” After a long pause that hung like mist, she shook her head and strode toward the gate like quick skipping stones. “Senior, go ahead. I’ve got a way.”

At the last word, Mu Ling lifted her face; her smile burst like sunlight through cloud, lively as spring.

For reasons he can’t name, Ye Weibai’s heart thumped like a drum struck once, a single echo in his chest.

He hadn’t even found a word before the girl’s figure thinned into distance like a kite slipping its string.

Far off, Mu Ling spotted a couple heading in and flowed alongside them like a shadow on water.

She chatted with easy laughter, a brook running light, and bent to tease the stroller baby like a playful breeze.

Her performance was flawless, a mask fitted smooth; she felt like an old neighbor under the shade of plane trees.

The dutiful guard missed her like fog slipping through pines and waved the trio in with a bored blink.

Inside, she looked back; her grin flicked like a coin tossed toward Ye Weibai, bright and smug.

Ye Weibai touched his unshaven face, a cliff of stubble, and sighed like a tired bell—who could blend in with a criminal’s mug?

It really is a face‑value world; pretty faces open doors like blossoms after rain.

Thinking that, he prepared to drop, body twisting like a stubborn hinge, when his lower back gave a brittle “crack.”

“...” Not good, the thought flashed like a knife.

Pain stabbed like a cold blade; his body pitched sideways and he dove headfirst like a sack of rice.

“Ow!” The cry came not from Ye Weibai but from a young girl’s voice, bright and small, ringing from beneath him like a bell under a blanket.

His hand reached out and found not grass but something soft, a little scratchy, like fabric over sand.

“Mister—I’ll sue you for groping!” The shout sprung like a firecracker.

Memory surged like a tide, and Ye Weibai snapped back without thinking, words flying like a pebble. “Who’d grope a tomboy like you?”

His hand left her airstrip‑flat chest like a plane pulling up; he pushed to his feet as the unlucky kid sat up, rubbing her backside like a bruised peach.

Her hair was shorn to the ears, a clean cut like sharp reeds; her eyes glinted like flints as she glared.

She wore light‑blue ripped shorts, tears like sky slits, and a red basketball jersey with white trim, a banner bought too big that swallowed her small butt.

Ye Weibai clocked the ball at her feet, an orange moon on the grass, and smiled. “Brat, sneaking out to play again?”

“None of your business.” She dusted her black cap, a crow’s wing flecked with blades of grass, flipped it on, and shot him a knife‑thin look.

She nearly raised a middle finger, a thorn ready to prickle, but his squint landed like a warning bell and she retracted it fast.

Even so, she stood there like a little punk, chin up, a street cat with its tail high.

Rubbing his aching old back, a coal glowing dull, Ye Weibai kept his smile easy; from Bai Ye’s memories he knew this hat‑wearing tomboy’s weather.

She’s Li Xixi, a middle schooler, tomboy in look and bone, a wild kite running with boys under open sky.

She climbs walls, tosses poppers like sparks, and smashes glass like a sudden hail—none of it missing from her list.

To Ye Weibai’s eye, though, despite zero girlish air now, her porcelain skin and long legs are seeds under spring soil.

Give it time; grow her hair like poured silk, and today’s blind boys will regret like frost biting fingers.

As for how they met—it was also about walls, a story traced like chalk along brick.

Back then, Bai Ye was the one getting smashed, and the spot shifted to the outside while the target stayed the same.

Li Xixi tried to climb out with a ball tucked close, stepping on the wall like a cat on a ledge.

Her foot slipped on moss, and she fell, face blanching like paper, a blossom dropping toward hard earth.

She landed butt‑first, a thud like a drum, right on Bai Ye’s head as he crouched in the corner smoking like a dim ember.

She was fine, a robin shaking off rain; Bai Ye nearly earned a busted neck, pain ringing like iron.

“Brat, watch for people when you climb!” He spat the cigarette like a bitter seed and stared at the girl fallen from the sky.

“How would I know a random uncle was sitting below?” Li Xixi brandished a little fist like a cloud puff and shot back without blinking.

That’s how they met, sparks thrown like flint on stone.

Not friendly, but not a wildfire either—just a small crackle under dusk.