They slipped out through the unwatched gate of the residential quarter, the mouth of the street yawning like a quiet beast, and skirted a plaza as empty as a drained lake.

A few dozen steps carried them onward, beads on a string, and the famous pedestrian street opened ahead like a river paved in stone and light.

The street ran for thousands of meters, a stone spine stretching to a distant hub plaza, and not a single soul drifted across its wind-brushed skin.

The walkway spanned ten meters, broad as a dry riverbed, flanked by two- and three-story buildings in southern arcade-style qilou, roofs casting shade like wings.

The first floors recessed four or five meters, an arched corridor that caught rain like a net, perfect for slow strolling, while shop signs bloomed in bright colors.

Ye Weibai and Little Ash, a father and daughter adrift, one clueless about this city, the other hollowed by forgetting, wandered like leaves in a mild current.

They peered left and right, eyes like minnows darting, then pocketed a tourist guide map from a nearby newsstand, a quiet take like lifting fruit from an unattended branch.

“Little Ash, that wasn’t right,” Ye said, his voice soft as fog, while a playful glint hid like a fish under the surface.

“Eh, eh, eh? Dad, you suggested it!” Her protest popped like a soap bubble, bright and thin.

“This is where you should stop your dad,” he replied, teasing like a breeze tugging a kite.

“Then—” Her words wavered like a reed.

“I wouldn’t listen anyway.” His grin curled like a cat’s tail.

“...” Silence dropped like a pebble in a well.

No answer came, so Ye Weibai glanced down and a smile rose like dawn light.

Little Ash puffed her cheeks, a small storm cloud, and burrowed into his pocket like an ostrich hiding its head in sand.

“Just kidding.” Ye’s finger tapped her crown, a gentle drumbeat under sunlight.

He coaxed her in a low voice, warmth spreading like tea steam, until she peeked out again with a huff sharp as a sparrow chirp.

“Dad, if you say you won’t talk to Little Ash again, I’ll get really mad!” Her eyes shone like two gray lakes, steady and bright.

Her gaze was serious, a blade of light under cloud, and a shadow he couldn’t read stirred behind it like mist in a ravine.

He froze, memory striking like a bell, recalling how she had swallowed words when she first woke; his smile folded away like a fan.

“Sorry, Little Ash,” he bowed slightly, his tone heavy as quiet rain, “Dad was wrong.”

“Eh—” His solemnity startled her, hands fluttering like two startled finches.

“It’s not that serious! Just don’t say it again,” she said, waving the moment away like dandelion fluff.

“Mm. I promise,” he replied, the vow settling like a stone in a stream.

“That’s better!” Her grin burst like sunshine through leaves. “Then let’s go here!”

She leaned forward, a sapling in the wind, and pointed at a red-circled street on the map, the ink ring glowing like a lantern.

So Ye Weibai, with Little Ash nestled in his pocket like a warm seed, headed for the storied pedestrian street the paper praised like a trumpet.

The way was empty, the silence cool as morning dew, and the destination matched it, the lit windows glittering like ice with no faces to reflect.

Without people as the pulse, even bright storefronts felt like lanterns in snow, their glow a hush rather than a welcome.

In fact, the wide street stretched like a cold river, and that breadth made the chill more bone-deep.

Father and daughter didn’t mind; their worry perched elsewhere, flitting like a restless sparrow.

“Dad, is it really okay not to pay?” Her voice trembled like a ribbon in wind.

“Uh, I’d pay if I knew who to pay,” he said, frowning like a crease in paper.

“And,” she muttered, her words small as falling grains, “we kind of look like we don’t have money.”

“We’ll pay eventually,” Ye smiled, the promise bright as a coin, “or we’ll turn into pigs.”

“Eh? Really?” Little Ash clutched a translucent pink jelly bigger than her head, and dread popped like a balloon.

“Of course. It’s in the Code of ‘Spirited Away,’ First Rule,” Ye said, eyes crinkling like crescent moons. “No eating without paying.”

“Second Rule,” he added, chuckling like a brook, “if you become a pig, don’t get too fat, or you’ll be made into a dish.”

Her face went pale, a paper fan without color, and he laughed, warm as noon sun, to calm the flutter.

“It’s fine. We’ll keep proper records,” he said, words neat as rows of seeds, “and pay the owners once we earn money.”

“That won’t break the rules.” His certainty set like a seal in wax.

“Mm! Mm-mm!” Little Ash nodded fast, like the Jade Rabbit pounding medicine, her resolve thumping like drums.

“Can’t break the rules! Can’t turn into a pig!” Her vow bounced like a pebble skipping on water.

“If Little Ash becomes a pig, she’d be a cute mini porker,” Ye teased, laughter flicking like sunlight on waves.

“No-no-no-no-no!” She shook her head like a rattling gourd. “Not cute at all! Don’t want it at all!”

Ye snorted, the sound light as wind through grass. “Then let’s start the ledger.”

They had no paper or pen, so the first debt was forced like a door pushed open—credit by necessity.

They took a pen and a palm-sized notebook from an unattended stationery shop, like two birds plucking twigs, and paid nobody.

They traded looks, tongues peeking like shy foxes, and shared a guilty grin that drifted away like smoke.

They picked a drink shop, empty as a pond before dawn, and sat by the window where sun pooled like honey on the table.

The kraft notebook opened, a blank field awaiting footprints, and Little Ash hopped from Ye’s pocket to sit cross-legged beside it.

She hugged her jelly, peach blush winking like a rose petal, while she watched her dad write, the pen scratching like a cricket.

Hand mirrored soul; Ye’s script was clean with a faint edge, strokes slicing like reeds, showing a clear, bright temperament.

“Mm… first, one jelly…” He paused, eyes lifting like birds. “Do you remember how much it costs?”

Little Ash blinked, her mind a foggy pond. “I don’t.”

“Okay, call it zero point five,” Ye said, nodding like a bobbing buoy. “Then this notebook—let me see—twenty-five.”

“Wow, this tiny thing costs twenty-five. Prices here climb like ivy.” His surprise flickered like lightning.

“Twenty-five! That’s fifty jellies!” Little Ash’s eyes widened like two full moons, her outrage puffing like steam.

“One Little Ash couldn’t finish that!” Her claim dropped like a flower petal.

“This pen’s pricier—thirty,” he said, the number clinking like a coin on stone.

“Thirty!! Then that’s—” She counted on fingers, little branches ticking, “fifty jellies!”

“...” Ye paused, his pen hovering like a dragonfly.

“What is it, Dad?” Her innocence shone like clear water.

“What about forty?” His smile tilted like a slanted roof.

“Forty?” She tilted her head and counted again, stopping at the fifth finger like reaching a cliff. “—Fifty jellies!”

“And fifty?” he asked, amusement glinting like mica.

“Mm… fifty!” Her confidence rose like a flag in wind.

“I won’t ask about sixty,” Ye said, relieved like shade after glare. “I get your system.”

“It’s fine. You’re still little,” he added, warmth lifting like a gentle tide.

“W-what! Dad!” She puffed her cheeks, a tiny storm gathering. “Then how many is it!”

“You can’t count that high on fingers,” he said, teasing like a cat tapping a string.

“Mm… mean Dad,” she muttered, heat flushing like a coal, and bit her jelly hard, a fierce chomp like a squirrel at a nut.

“Mm! Peach flavor is so good!” Her joy sparkled like dew on petals.

When she lifted her face, Ye burst out laughing, the sound ringing like wind-bells.

Red fruit clung to her cheeks, a blush smeared like paint, and Ye drew a tissue, gentleness falling like snow.

He wiped her clean, each touch soft as feather, brushing her neck where laughter fluttered like trembling blossoms.

“Ticklish,” she giggled, shoulders shaking like willow leaves.

“Easy,” Ye sighed, patience smooth as silk. “If it gets in your hair, that’s trouble.”

“Alright, we’ve logged most of what we took,” he said, relief settling like dusk light. “Sign, and then we’ll buy clothes.”

“Sign?” Her confusion blinked like a firefly.

“Like this.” Ye wrote at the bottom, the name standing like a stamped seal.

“That means the content is ours,” he said, his voice steady as a carpenter’s line.

“Oh, got it!” She tossed the empty jelly cup, a thud like a small drum, and sprang up with bright eyes.

“Little Ash wants to write too! Together with Dad!” Her joy flared like lanterns at festival.

Seeing her nearly as tall as the pen, Ye offered gently, the suggestion a leaf on water. “Want me to write for you?”

“No!” She shook her head, resolve ringing like a blade. “I want to write it myself!”

He tried to explain, but her next words landed like a sunbeam through cloud and stilled him.

“Only if I write it myself, I’m truly with Dad.” Her upturned face shone, gray eyes clear as rain-washed stone.

Her pale, fragile features bloomed with a pure smile, innocence bright as first snow under sun.

Sunlight poured through the window, gilding her cheek like gold leaf, and her short hair lifted, a wave of light and air.

For an instant she seemed transparent, a petal almost melting into the radiant spill.

Sun touched Ye’s face too, and his smile softened like wax near a flame. “Mm. It’s yours.”

“Leave it to Little Ash~!” Her sweetness chimed like a bell.

She reached for the pen, tiny fingers holding it like a sapling clinging to a branch, and hopped onto the notebook’s page.

She hugged the pen, nearly both arms around it, and traced circles like a bee over flowers, lines wobbling into the paper.

It wasn’t easy; effort pooled like sweat on a brow, and she wrestled the pen for a long time, strokes meandering like a creek.

Finally she stopped, handed the pen back, and plopped down beside it, breath fluttering like a tired bird.

“What’s wrong?” Ye asked, amusement rippling like light on water.

“Little Ash is exhausted!” She leaned back, palms on the table, panting like a tiny runner after a hill.

“Want to go back to the pocket?” His question fell soft as foam.

“Mm. Little Ash wants the pocket.” Her eyelids drooped, two shutters half-closed, weariness folding over her like a blanket.

Ye lifted her gently, touch careful as holding a moth’s wing, and tucked her into his chest pocket, a nest warm as spring.

“Not going to nap?” His whisper was a leaf’s hush.

She yawned, a small tide rolling, and shook her head, hands gripping the pocket’s edge like a cliff. “Not yet. We still need to shop.”

Ye smiled, a curve like a crescent, then looked down at the notebook again. “One last step.”

“Another… step?” Her voice thinned like mist.

“Mm. We haven’t written the record of time. Today…” The pen rose, then fell, caught like a kite in a lull.

He’d thought to write a precise hour, but in this [World] where Time keeps rewinding, exact time meant as little as footprints in tide.

“Little Ash.” His voice carried a tremor, a string plucked in a quiet hall.

“…Mm?” The reply came faint, like a moth at glass.

“How should we record time?” His question drifted like a leaf in midair.

“I… think…” Her energy ebbed, the sound thinning like a candle before going out, and the rest vanished into quiet.

No answer came. Ye looked down, and she had already closed her eyes, curled like a small cat in her nest.

“Asleep? Or—” The thought trembled like frost forming.

His right hand quivered, and he set two fingers over her left chest, touch light as a moth’s feet.

No heartbeat answered; the silence lay there like deep snow.

“I see. Again,” he said, mouth a thin line, and his smile drew in like a wave retreating.

The drink shop was empty, machines humming like a distant hive, and the air conditioner whispered like winter grass.

The whole world felt like a lone stage with no audience, one person in a pool of sun and shadow.

Sunlight flowed, wind pressed gently, and time hovered like dust motes spinning.

After a long while, his gaze returned to the page where crooked black lines tangled like vines—probably spelling .

Slowly, Ye’s mouth lifted into a faint smile, a pale crescent, and he set the pen down with a soft touch.

“My daughter fell asleep,” he murmured, the words warm as a shawl in chill.

“Then Dad will decide.” His tone steadied like a beam set in place.

“This is Little Ash’s second waking.” The fact landed like a marker stone.

“So we’ll write—” He breathed in, ink ready like night gathering.

“Day [2].” The number stood like a small flag.

…

…

Notebook, first page:

Done.

…

…