The stairwell outside the door, directly across from him, had the neighbor’s front door open. A middle-aged man with glasses was carrying a black bag and glanced back at him, said nothing, and went inside, gently closing the door behind him without any intention of greeting.

George Miller remembered this neighbor. The owner was this bespectacled middle-aged man named Paul Smith. There was no lady of the house, only a seven- or eight-year-old boy living with him. Both of them were quiet and taciturn; they never greeted anyone. Only when George Miller’s family had just moved in and met them on the stairs did they exchange a brief greeting and introduce themselves. Since then, they never said hello when they saw each other. This kind of impolite behavior left a deep impression on George Miller’s family.

Reaching back to hold the cold metal door, he gently pressed it shut. George Miller rubbed his hands together. Once his palms and the backs of his hands felt a bit warmer, he started down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, he turned left along the gray-and-white tiled floor, stepping onto the gray-black pavement between the black street lamps.

Leaving the residential complex along the road, he found himself on a street lined on both sides by ochre-colored buildings. The sidewalks, protected by black railings, had very few pedestrians.

On the street, an antique car was slowly chugging by, belching white smoke, followed closely by an ox cart loaded with fruit. The driver occasionally shouted and cracked his whip.

George Miller walked along the pedestrian path enclosed by black railings, observing the ochre buildings around him.

The buildings along the street were about seven stories high, with square windows—some open, some tightly shut and reinforced with wire mesh. The edges of the buildings were rounded, with no sharp corners.

The chilly autumn wind kept flipping George Miller’s hair back, making him lower his head. His skin felt stiff, somewhat hard and numb. Inside the black railings, small trees had been planted; their branches were bare, just naked forks, with one tree every so often.

George Miller continued along the sidewalk by the street for about twenty minutes. Gradually, more cars and people appeared. He passed a brass plaque engraved with the letters for Garden Street.

At a crossroads, he turned left again. The buildings on both sides of the street became ornate structures with complex gray-and-white patterns, tall columns, and exquisite reliefs on their facades. The black street lamps on both sides of the road now had white globes on top as decorations.

On the chilly sidewalk, a woman in a thick white dress with silver trim was walking her dog. On a decorative black metal bench, two old men with canes sat chatting quietly.

George Miller tightened his scarf and looked up to the left at the upper floors. The fifth floor of the gray-and-white building on the left was where his uncle lived. Their ability to get into St. Oriole Academy was, to a large extent, thanks to his uncle.

This uncle had built his fortune from scratch, establishing a powerful business empire. He was one of the wealthiest businessmen in all of Huai City. What was rare was that he had always treated George Miller very well. However, perhaps due to a preference for sons over daughters, or because of blood relations, he was rather indifferent toward Grace Carter.

“I’ll go visit Uncle when I come back later…” George Miller lowered his head and quickened his pace, heading toward the end of the street lined with gray-and-white buildings.

A square brass plaque stood by the sidewalk as he passed, engraved with: Pennington.

At the end of the street was a curved corner, and right at the bend was a small shop with a round arched doorway. The shop door was open, warm yellow light spilling out. An old man with glasses sat in front of an antique yellow bookshelf, intently examining something small in his hand with a magnifying glass.

George Miller glanced up to the right. On the gray-and-white wall hung a triangular black plaque, with white letters engraved: Dolphin Antique Shop.

He strode straight over and entered the shop, glancing around.

Under the dim yellow light, the cramped antique shop was completely empty of customers.

The whole shop was a deep red, filled with tables—more than a dozen of various sizes. Thick dark red cloths covered the walls and tables, displaying all sorts of strange and curious items.

George Miller stepped onto the deep yellow wooden floor, his footsteps making a creaking sound. As soon as he entered, he noticed someone to his right and was startled. Looking closely, he saw a white half-length statue by the door, depicting a curly-haired child—only the shoulders and head, with a rectangular stone pillar as the base.

“Looking for something?” The old man’s skin was grayish-yellow, his face covered in black age spots and wrinkles. Seeing George Miller enter, he put down his magnifying glass and asked in a low voice.

“I’m just browsing…” George Miller, startled, quickly composed himself and replied, “You don’t need to mind me, I’ll just look around.”

8 Attribute Special Allocation

The old man scratched his sparse white hair. “Suit yourself. The things on the left side of my shop were just brought in from the countryside. The ones on the right are some good old pieces.” With that, he lowered his head again to study the small item in his hand.

George Miller glanced over. The old man was wearing white gloves and holding a pale gold pocket watch. The back cover of the watch was open, and he seemed to be examining its inner workings.

Withdrawing his gaze, George Miller scanned the entire shop, then slowly began to look around from left to right.