Memories (I)

She watched Yun Lan, waiting for his answer. Her eyes held a mixture of curiosity, a trace of unease, and that instinctive wariness peculiar to a girl when another intimate member of the opposite sex appears around someone she cares about. In the afternoon classroom, the aroma of food seemed to freeze for a moment, leaving only the faint sound of cicadas outside the window and the small ripples quietly spreading in the girl's heart.

Hearing Yun Lan actually start listing names, Honami Ichinose's initial subtle sense of jealousy was like a stone thrown into a pond; the ripples instantly widened. She opened her eyes slightly, watching as Yun Lan spoke the names of three completely unfamiliar girls in that calm, narrative tone.

"Two of my junior sisters are biological sisters," Yun Lan tapped his fingertips on the desk, as if pinpointing them in his memory. "The older one is called Yi Jiang, and the younger one is Yi Xuan." He paused, adding a third name, "And there is one more junior sister, the youngest, called Ye Shun-guang."

"Wow..." Honami Ichinose let out a long-drawn-out exclamation. The surprise in her voice now overshadowed her other emotions, but soon, the resentment of being "kept in the dark" surged back up. She put down the chopsticks she had been holding, crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back slightly, and puffed out her cheeks. Like a little squirrel that had hoarded too many nuts only to be suddenly discovered, she glared at Yun Lan indignantly:

"Brother Lan! You have never, ever told me that you had three junior sisters!" Her tone was accusatory, and her blue eyes were filled with the charge of "you actually hid this from me." These three names, along with the intimate label of "junior sister," suddenly became concrete in her mind, making her realize that there might be a significant gap in her understanding of an important period in Yun Lan's past.

Yun Lan looked at the pouting Honami. His face remained calm, but his gaze drifted slightly, as if piercing through the classroom walls to see scenes from the past. His tone was flat as he explained:

"After all, it has been a very long time since I officially 'graduated' from my sect. I've been busy ever since." "I don't keep in frequent contact with those three junior sisters, so naturally, there was no need to mention them." He did not elaborate on the nature of the sect or what the junior sisters were specifically doing, maintaining a sense of mystery.

However, his next words inadvertently revealed a sense of responsibility and concern that transcended ordinary sect ties, bordering on that of a family member:

"But, during holidays and festivals, I always remember to send them some gifts, and also..." He paused slightly, his lips curling into a faint, helpless, and amused arc, "...clothes."

"Clothes?" Honami blinked, her attention caught by this specific detail. "Brother Lan has never bought me clothes, hmph!"

"Hmm." Yun Lan nodded, the look of nostalgia in his eyes becoming clearer, mixed with a touch of affectionate teasing about the past. "After all, you can't exactly have that old geezer of a master buy them clothes, right?" He shook his head, his tone carrying clear disapproval. "Master's taste... tsk tsk tsk..."

He "tsked" several times in a row. He didn't describe it in detail, but his vivid expression of disgust and his hesitation were enough for Honami to conjure up an image in her mind of an "old geezer" with terrible aesthetic sense who would inevitably cause a disaster while trying to pick out clothes for young female disciples. This detail instantly brought that distant memory of the sect closer, making it vivid and even somewhat comical.

Looking at the longing in Yun Lan's eyes, Honami Ichinose still asked the question in her heart: Brother Lan, since you miss them, why don't you go back to find them?

Yun Lan seemed to think of something; he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and pretended to answer nonchalantly: I'm usually too busy with school, so I don't have time to visit them.

Seeing that Yun Lan didn't seem to want to talk about this topic, Honami Ichinose tactfully stopped asking.

Internally, Yun Lan was silently complaining: Are you kidding me? Go back to see them? It would be a miracle if I didn't get eaten alive.

Yun Lan vaguely remembered that year when he went down the mountain alone for the New Year. His master refused to go to the Yun Family for the holidays but chased him down the mountain, saying, "Why aren't you staying home to accompany your parents instead of bothering this old geezer?"

The sky hung low, and the lead-gray clouds were so thick they seemed to press down on the eaves. The temperature was low enough to turn breath into frost, and the biting north wind curled into every gap in his collar and sleeves. Flakes of snow fell silently from the depths of the starless night sky—at first fine and sparse, then gradually thickening, until they were like torn goose down or drifting willow catkins, shrouding the entire world in a quiet, vast whiteness.

The snowflakes landed softly on the shoulders of hurried pedestrians, on the bare branches along the street, and on the eyelashes and corners of Yun Lan's eyes as he wandered the streets alone. A touch of cold moisture lingered there briefly, turning into tiny water trails that slid down slowly, indistinguishable from melted snow or something else.

Yun Lan was wrapped in a thick, dark coat, his hands tucked into his pockets, his fingertips icy. He had just gotten off the train and was preparing to go home, appearing hurried on this New Year's Eve (or perhaps some other equally cold winter night). The dim, yellow halo of the streetlights looked hazy and lonely amidst the dancing snowflakes, stretching and shrinking his shadow behind him. Most of the shops were already closed; the lights inside the glass display windows were warm, but they had nothing to do with him. The whole world seemed to be left with only the sound of the wind and snow, and his own nearly silent breathing.

Just as he passed a long-closed bun shop with its sign extinguished, a voice, thin and sharp as if cut by the cold wind, reached his ears.

"Sister... I, I'm so hungry... I want to eat a char siu bao..." The voice was childish, carrying an undisguised longing and a slight tremor caused by cold and weakness.

He turned his head subconsciously, looking toward the direction of the sound—the narrow, dim alleyway beside the bun shop, piled with snow and discarded cardboard boxes.

The dim yellow streetlight barely outlined a small area at the entrance of the alley. There, two small figures were huddled tightly together, trying to use the wall and the stacked boxes to block some of the wind and cold.

They were two little girls who looked to be only about ten years old. Their attire could hardly be called "clothes"—just dark, tattered rags barely covering their bodies. Their exposed arms and calves were frozen red, even turning purple. Their hair was dirty and tangled, covered in dust and snow, but one could still see their unusual hair color—not dyed, but naturally as pure white as snow, which, against the backdrop of the falling snow, had an eerily fitting quality.

The two girls leaned against each other. They were of similar age and their faces were vaguely similar; they seemed to be sisters. But what was even more striking were their eyes. The slightly taller girl was looking up at the extinguished sign of the bun shop, her pupils glowing with a strange and bright gold in the dim light, like embers that had not yet gone out in the dark night. And the younger sister, who had just said she wanted a char siu bao, was nestled against her sister's side. When she looked up at her sister, she revealed a pair of crimson eyes, like two rubies soaked in ice water, filled with pure hunger and expectation.

Gold eyes and red eyes, in this snowy, wretched alley, flickered with a light that did not belong to their tragic situation—a light that was almost supernatural. Their faces were blue from the cold and their lips were chapped, but those heterochromatic eyes were startlingly bright, staring fixedly at the shop that had long since stopped selling buns, as if a faint, illusory aroma still lingered in the air.