Henry Bennett picked up the book and cursed loudly: “I’ve been waiting for over half a month and still haven’t gotten to read it, and you treat it like this?! With that empty head of yours, what’s the point of reading? Go home and do your homework!”

Ethan Carter ran off in a panic, calling for Grace Carter to stand up for him, and the courtyard suddenly fell silent. Henry Bennett cradled the book and turned back, staring straight at Samuel Grant, not hiding his intentions, practically wishing he could write his thoughts on his forehead—I've stood up for you, so you should let me read it now, right?

Samuel Grant stepped forward and took the book. “Thank you, senior.” With that, he went straight back to his room.

Henry Bennett stood there on the floor tile, dazed, stifled, incredulous, as if he was experiencing all the sufferings of the world in a flash. Passing by Samuel Grant’s window on his way back, he grumbled, “Acting so eccentric, being smart is useless.”

Samuel Grant shot back, “Arrogant and proud, being knowledgeable is useless.”

Would it kill you not to talk back!

Henry Bennett said nothing more, went back to his room to enjoy the air conditioning and take a nap, tossed and turned a few times, then grabbed his clothes to take a shower—a whole ordeal. He slept for a total of two hours, and when he woke up, he felt a sense of loss, missing that old book terribly.

He put on a plain white T-shirt, the thin cotton outlining his lean muscles, and tiptoed to the window next door, wanting to see what Samuel Grant was up to. If he was sleeping, he’d go in and take the book out.

Take, not steal.

Henry Bennett was following the example of great scholars—how could a scholar’s business be called stealing?

The door was open and the window ajar. He was acting like a thief in his own courtyard, pushing the window open a crack. First, he saw the empty bed. Looking further in, he saw Samuel Grant sitting calmly at the desk, also changed into fresh clothes, face washed clean.

Samuel Grant was focused at the desk, the old book spread out in front of him—now not just old, but damaged. At hand were milky glue, a calligraphy brush, and a bottle of oil; he was repairing the book, with the door open for ventilation to speed up the process.

Henry Bennett recognized the bottle of oil—it was the same kind they used to protect wood. He understood what Samuel Grant was doing. The sound of cicadas masked the noise of the window opening. He went from peeking to openly watching, leaning against the window frame, picking at the window ledge, his gaze glued to the other person.

Sunlight spilled over half of Samuel Grant’s body, his pupils shining a tea-brown, as if a bowl of Biluochun tea was held in his eyes. His neck was long, head bowed, eyes focused on the torn pages, the tips of his ears sunburned red, blurred in the play of light and shadow on his hair.

Those hands, uncalloused, moved with utmost gentleness—dabbing glue, brushing oil, smoothing every wrinkle with his fingertips. Most impressive was how he never paused, each step flowing into the next, handling it all like a seasoned craftsman.

When Samuel Grant finished, he puffed his cheeks and blew on the seams.

As he blew, Henry Bennett didn’t know why he opened his own mouth, and with a bit too much force, even pried off a piece of the window ledge. Samuel Grant turned at the sound, staring at him in surprise. He held onto the window, showing no embarrassment at being caught, and said openly, “Hand me the glue, I’ll stick this piece back on.”

With the window ledge fixed, everything was fine again. Though neither spoke, neither seemed angry.

Samuel Grant brought out the dried book. “Senior, you can read it now.”

Henry Bennett almost forgot he’d come to steal the book, but took it properly. “It’ll go perfectly with my pile of scraps.”

Samuel Grant was tempted. “I want to read it too.”

The two of them sat under the porch, sharing a book, with that pile of water-damaged pages between them. Henry Bennett explained methodically—how to distinguish porcelain from pottery—while Samuel Grant listened intently, grasping everything at once, never forgetting a word.

Suddenly, Henry Bennett asked, “You know how to repair books?”

Samuel Grant teased, “Just patched it up randomly.” The other didn’t press further, so he breathed a sigh of relief and continued reading. Before they knew it, they’d finished the first volume before sunset. Henry Bennett closed the book, searching for something to say: “Did you have fun going out with your classmates?”

Samuel Grant was happy, but also a bit regretful. “I wanted to go to the museum, but no one else was interested.”

“You want to go to the museum?”

“Yes, but I don’t know the way.”

Since childhood, Henry Bennett’s favorite places were antique markets and museums—the former to see the folk market, the latter to see the official collections. He didn’t know why Samuel Grant wanted to go, but it wasn’t unusual; tourists always visited museums.

He said, “I’ll take you tomorrow.”

Samuel Grant quickly thanked him, and that radiant smile was the first time Henry Bennett had seen it—or rather, the first time it was directed at him.

Henry Bennett loved jade and fine wood, antiques and curios, and was happy to spend lavishly on food and fun. The one thing he never cared about was other people’s feelings—whether they were happy or not was none of his business. Yet as Samuel Grant finished thanking him and smiling, he felt a sudden brightness in his chest in the deepening dusk—maybe because Samuel Grant’s smile was a little too beautiful, or else it was just strange.

With a weight off his mind, Samuel Grant fell asleep quickly that night, sleeping more soundly than ever before. When he woke up, it was already mid-morning. He first checked if the neighbor was up—the door was closed, Henry Bennett still hadn’t gotten up.

Happily, he went to wash up, changed clothes, packed his paper and pens, and went to the front yard for breakfast. He ate one serving and packed another, finished everything, and the door next door was still closed. He knocked: “Senior, are you awake?”

No response from inside. He pushed the door open and found the room empty.

Samuel Grant searched everywhere—in the small courtyard, inside and out, even went to his second uncle’s east courtyard—but there was no sign of Henry Bennett. In the front yard, he ran into Lillian Carter and hurriedly asked, “Shimu, have you seen senior?”