Around four in the afternoon.

Clouds pressed down like a lid; daylight dulled; drizzle stitched the air with fine silver threads.

On the neighborhood road, few residents drifted by—twos and threes, hurried along by the foul weather like leaves pushed by a cold wind.

Only Ye Weibai and Mu Ling walked at an idle pace through the rain-curtain, boredom wound tight inside them. They said nothing, circling the outer road again and again. The place was lovely—park, plaza, artificial lake—yet seen soaked this many times, it felt like a picture book blurred by water.

Mu Ling kept looking, though, eyes bright, a hungry gleam like a fox at the edge of a field.

"Is it really that good?" Ye Weibai asked on the fourth lap.

"Never seen it." The girl behind him, holding a small transparent white umbrella, hopped a puddle like a sparrow. Her skirt lifted; her thighs were milky and soft; something white and cotton peeked and vanished like a shy cloud.

"But I’ve seen enough now. Thanks, senior."

She stopped, smiled at him. "Then next, let’s go take a look at senior’s place."

She said “go to your place” with a light smile, voice soft as rain on leaves, like a simple invite to be a guest. Yet her manner was grave, firm as a line drawn in ink; it left no room for refusal.

"Let’s go."

Ye Weibai didn’t refuse. He studied the girl for a few seconds, then turned and led on.

"Mm." She quickened a few steps and caught up, footsteps tapping like small drums on wet stone.

On the way to Ye Weibai’s home, silence broke. Mu Ling returned to her chirping, noisy self—topics flew wild as meteors—and when her words got too bold, Ye Weibai snapped a lightning-fast flick to her forehead, quicker than thunder, sharp as a hawk’s dive.

The girl covered her brow, face clouded with mock offense.

Ye Weibai just laughed, a low warmth like charcoal.

The air between them settled back into normal, smooth as a pond after a tossed pebble.

"Eh? Senior keeps his key here?"

The road had felt longer than expected, but at last they reached his place. Ye Weibai stepped into the yard, opened the shoe cabinet by the door, rummaged out a spare key, turned the lock, and slid the key back inside like a secret whisked under a mat.

The girl’s pupils shone, fixed on his hands, attention steady as a temple bell.

"Isn’t that risky?" She slipped off her shoes, revealing small feet wrapped in white cotton socks; she tucked them into oversized slippers and shadowed him into the living room, dim and unlit like dusk in a cave.

"Risky how?" Ye Weibai turned toward her in the gloom.

"A lot," she said with a smile. "If a bad person took it, and slipped in, wouldn’t that be trouble?"

She tossed it out as a joke, as light as dandelion fluff, yet the words landed like a stone—square on what happened [Yesterday] near midnight.

—Did Shaohan’s death sprout from a fatal lapse here?

"Lin." Ye Weibai looked at her, voice soft, a thread pulled tight. "I did carry a key."

"Hm?" She tilted her head, a bird listening for rain.

"But I still deliberately took the spare from here—" Ye Weibai paused, breath catching like a snagged branch. "That was mindless."

She startled, then her smile grew warm and gentle, a small fire under winter palms. She stepped close, went on tiptoe, and, a little unsure, patted his head. "It’s okay, senior."

"Like this." In her shallow smile, apology unfurled like mist. "—It’s Ling’s fault, really."

"—I’m just not strong enough."

They spoke in smoke and riddles. Not just her. If anyone else had been there, they’d have come away lost in fog. But these two knew exactly what the other meant, and what emotion weighted the words—and the near-twisted strand of truth beneath them.

"Senior."

"Mm?"

A small pause. In the darkness, her smile shone like a lantern. "Hug me?"

"Sure."

Hair crossed like wet silk. Breath blended like warm mist. Skin met skin, soft against soft. A hug is that kind of act—more contact than a kiss, more truth than words.

"You’re so light—"

Like [Void].

That thought rose in Ye Weibai as he held the ponytailed girl in a school uniform and black thigh-highs, her warmth soft as river clay.

...

"It’s about time. I’ll head out."

Mu Ling bent to put on her shoes. Her small, peach-like hips lifted; her long legs, drawn smooth by black stockings, traced a clean line. It began at the ankle, brushed the curve of calf and thigh, skimmed the neat, compass-perfect arc of her backside, climbed to the graceful dip of her back, and came to rest at the pale, bright, beautiful neck.

All of it—pretty. Even... sexy.

The moment that thought bloomed, a scent flared at Ye Weibai’s nose.

It was the scent of [Misfortune].

Not unfamiliar. He’d caught it on many little girls in this World. But never like now—this dose, this saturation, poured thick as tar from Mu Ling.

—It was like a fish buried three days and nights in rotting mud; like volcanic ash filling the lungs; like iron-thorn brambles blooming inside the heart.

Unprecedented, heavier even than what he once sensed on Philia.

Ye Weibai’s face barely changed. He only sighed, then lifted his gaze to the sky, a lid lowering over light.

The clouds sagged darker.

When he lowered his head again, the girl was gone, slipped away at some unnoticed beat between breaths.

In her place trudged a tall little girl with a high ponytail, white top, washed jeans, a big backpack, dragging heavy luggage like a stubborn ox.

Shaohan. Yesterday, the kid probably arrived around this time too. How long did that awkward child stand here?

He watched her plant herself blankly by the neighbor’s door, pop open a tattered transparent white umbrella, pull out her phone, check it, put it back, then fish it out again—over and over, like a small clock unsure of its own hands.

Her tangled dithering made Ye Weibai want to laugh. Awkward or tsundere? Yesterday, when she met me, that cool, independent act was all a thin mask.

"Hey. Idiot over there."

He called from the yard, voice snapping like a twig.

"Eh?"

In the distance, the girl turned, dazed. She tilted her head, confused why her uncle stood inside that house, mind slow as a sleepy cat.

"Eh what eh. I’m talking to you—the idiot with the white umbrella and backpack."

He opened his umbrella and strode over, steps strong as rainbeats.

She stared until his black umbrella’s shadow covered her like a cloak; then she looked up. "Ah. Big—little uncle."

"Which is it, big or little?" He shot her a look, dry as sand.

He reached for her luggage. Like yesterday, Shaohan went rigid and dodged, skittish as a foal.

Yesterday he let her go. Today, no such luck.

He drew back his hand, smile curling, and raised his right palm.

"W-what?"

"Either hand it over yourself, or I spank you—choose."

"I—ah!" The suitcase hit the ground with a sharp thud. The girl clapped both hands to her butt, staring at him, eyes wide. "I didn’t say anything yet!"

"I assumed you picked both." Ye Weibai shook the right hand still tingling with the bounce of her backside, then stooped to grab the fallen luggage.

"Alright, let’s go. Geez, it’s heavy. What junk did you pack?" He tried for a casual lift, but the weight nearly pitched him forward. He stumbled, braced his old waist, and finally steadied. He sighed. "Useless body."

"Pfft."

She had a retort ready, but his fluster got her. If not for the hand at her mouth, she would’ve laughed out loud. Even so, a sliver of laughter slipped free, bright as a bell.

Then her eyes fell on that slightly stooped back hauling her luggage, and her heart thumped hard, a drumbeat in a quiet shrine. The smile faded, slowly. She stared, some old figure laying itself over the present. It felt like she’d just drunk a big mug of hot grapefruit tea—sweet, warm, and a little sour.

She tucked in close. The girl’s shadow vanished inside the taller shadow ahead. Head down, she muttered under her breath, a whisper only she could hear.

"You’re the idiot... Dabai."

...

With the luggage in hand, Ye Weibai stopped at the door on the left of the second floor. Shaohan stood behind him, small and steady as a sparrow on a rail.

"Uncle?" She looked up, voice tight as a thread.

Under white light, Ye Weibai stared at his right hand, stretched out yet unable to reach the knob, as if held back by an invisible rope. He smiled.

Just like yesterday, someone stood beside him, clamped on his wrist, refusing to let him open this door. The strength was immense, a mountain that wouldn’t move.

Yesterday, he thought that someone didn’t want him near Shaohan. Now it seemed that might be part of it—but the larger aim was to keep him out of this room.

—What’s inside?

At that question, his mind didn’t conjure a picture. Only blur. A thought insisted there was nothing to see, just a plain bedroom, no need to fuss—just like yesterday, a thought pressed him to leave the door shut, like a hand over his eyes.

"But sadly..."

By now, Bai Ye couldn’t veil Ye Weibai’s eyes the way it did yesterday. Even if Bai Ye flooded his mind again with rust and grit, after tasting clarity once, he remembered its peak. The same trick wouldn’t work twice.

A thread of lucidity stayed taut in his heart. Even if his sight muddied, he still saw like a lantern in mist.

"Girl."

"Mm?"

"Open this door for me."