My words have become law; I truly have no desire to display my divine power before others.

"Come in," he said, stepping aside to let people into the doorway.

My sister laughed, her eyes curving into two crescent moons.

She grabbed Amu's hand and pulled him inside, then waved to Ye Qingfeng.

"Taoist Master, come in quickly, it's cold outside."

Ye Qingfeng stepped over the threshold and entered the low, mud-brick house.

His head almost touched the lintel. He bent down slightly, then straightened up and stood next to the stove.

He looked at the simple furnishings in the room: the table with a missing leg, the iron pot that had been patched up several times, the cracked bowl, and the steamed buns covered with a cloth in the bowl.

His gaze swept over these things without lingering.

Amu closed the door and bolted it shut.

He hung the talisman on a nail behind the door, turned around, and looked at Ye Qingfeng.

He didn't know what to say or how to entertain the guest.

There was no tea, no wine, and not even a place to sit.

The two benches next to the table had one leg broken, which was propped up with a stone.

"Master, please have a seat." The younger sister brought over a long bench and placed it in front of Ye Qingfeng.

Ye Qingfeng glanced at the bench but didn't sit down.

He squatted down to be at eye level with his sister.

"What's your name?"

The little girl blinked and said, "Little Butterfly."

Ye Qingfeng nodded. "Xiao Die, a good name."

My sister smiled, revealing a gap in her jaw where she was missing a front tooth.

She looked at Ye Qingfeng, then suddenly reached out and touched the back of his hand.

Her hands were cold and small, like a newly hatched bird.

Ye Qingfeng did not dodge and let her touch him.

Her fingers paused on the back of his hand for a moment, then withdrew, a satisfied expression on her face.

......

The door next door has remained closed.

It's not that there's no one, it's that some people are afraid to drive.

Old Liu squatted behind the door, peering out through the crack in the door with one eye.

His right eye has good vision, but his left eye was hit by sawdust when he was young, so his vision is blurry.

He pressed his right eye against the crack in the door, his eye wide open, the pupil shrinking to a tiny dot.

He saw the Taoist priest stand at his door for a long time and knock on the door three times.

He saw the Taoist priest turn around and walk towards Amu's house.

He saw the door of Amu's house open, and the skinny boy, as thin as a bamboo pole, poked his head out, said a few words to the Taoist priest, then stepped aside and invited the Taoist priest in.

The door closed.

Old Liu straightened up and patted the dirt off his knees.

His knees are bad; they hurt when he squats for a long time.

He stood holding onto the door frame for a while, waiting for the pain to subside before slowly walking back into the house.

An oil lamp was lit inside the room, but the flame was very small, about the size of a soybean, and could not illuminate very far.

On the table was a pot of wine, a plate of peanuts, and half a roast chicken.

The peanuts were deep-fried until golden brown, and the roast chicken was bought from Li Ji's shop in the inner city; it was still steaming hot and glistening with oil.

He sat down, picked up his wine glass, and took a sip.

The liquor was strong, burning from my throat all the way down to my stomach.

He put down his cup, picked up a peanut, threw it into his mouth, and chewed it with a crunching sound.

His eyes were still fixed on the door, though he couldn't see anything through the wall.

"You ignorant fool." He swallowed the peanut and then picked up another one.

"What if it's an evil spirit? What if it's a bad person? If we just let them in, their whole family will die."

He took another sip of wine, this time a bit too much, choked, and coughed a few times.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the blackened beam on the roof.

He made the beam himself. He replaced it the year before last. The original beam was eaten by insects and half of it was broken. He was afraid it would collapse, so he spent two days making a new one, carrying it up and replacing it.

He was a carpenter with excellent skills; he made the tables, chairs, and benches for several shops in the city.

Life wasn't wealthy, but it was better than most, at least we had meat at every meal and wine every day.

The corners of his mouth turned up.

It's not a smile, but the kind of smile where the corners of your mouth unconsciously twitch upwards when you think of something good.

"It would be better if he were dead," he muttered to himself, his voice so low it was like a mouse gnawing on wood.

"He's dead. I'll search him while he's still alive. Even though that kid's family was poor, they had a few things. That table—the legs were broken, but the tabletop was made of old elm wood."

"They could make two small stools. That iron pot, it's been patched, might still be usable. And that girl..."

He paused, his eyes narrowing.

"That girl may be thin, but she can still fetch a few dollars. Aren't there people in the city who want to buy her? The younger the better, since she won't remember anything. She'll forget everything after a few years."

As he spoke, his voice grew softer and softer until it became a muffled murmur.

He poured himself another glass of wine, tilted his head back, and gulped it down with a "gulp."

He picked up a piece of roast chicken, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed it until his mouth was full of oil.

Oil dripped from the corner of his mouth. He stuck out his tongue and licked it, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

The flame of the oil lamp flickered, and his shadow swayed on the wall, sometimes large, sometimes small, like a crumpled piece of black cloth.

He wrapped up the remaining roast chicken, put it in the cupboard, and poured the peanuts into a small jar, then put the lid on.

He blew out the lamp, groped his way to the bed in the dark, and lay down.

The bed was made of hard wooden planks. He rolled over on it, found a comfortable position, and closed his eyes.

His hand was on his chest, his fingers tapping unconsciously on his clothes, once, twice, three times.

He is waiting.

Waiting for news of an accident next door.

Wait for screams, wait for cries, wait for the sound of things breaking.

Then he can get up, put on his shoes, reach next door, and take whatever he can.

He didn't care what would happen to that family.

It wasn't his fault; he was just being reckless. Thinking this, the corners of his mouth curled up again.

The neighborhood is quiet.

There were no screams, no cries, no sounds of things breaking.

Only the wind seeped in through the cracks in the wall, howling like someone crying in the distance.

Old Liu turned over, pulled the blanket over his head, and stopped listening.

His eyelids drooped, his breathing became heavy, and soon he started snoring.

......

Amu stood by the stove, looking at the bowl of medicine.

The medicine was already hot, and steam rose from the rim of the bowl, meandering and floating in the dim light.

He used a rag to cushion his hand, picked up the bowl, and placed it on the table.

Then he turned around and looked at Ye Qingfeng.

Ye Qingfeng sat on the broken-legged bench, leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, as if he were asleep, or as if he were thinking about something.

Xiaodie moved a low stool and sat next to him, resting her chin on her hands and staring at him intently.

Amu hesitated for a moment.

He didn't know how to start the conversation.

When guests come to your home, it is customary to entertain them.

But there wasn't much at home to entertain them.

Those two steamed buns were a tip he received after running around all day.