"I don't dare call." George Miller stared with an honest look, and quietly asked a question he had been pondering for a long time, "This name genealogy chart is alive, sometimes it changes, the names below can move up, but our family line has always stayed firmly at the very bottom—is it because of seniority?"

William Clark: "......"

He glanced at George Miller with a look reserved for idiots and said, "It's not about seniority, it's about the living descendants on each line."

George Miller: "And then?"

William Clark: "Whoever is more capable, their position is higher."

George Miller: "Then the ones at the bottom..."

He saw the look of death in William Clark's eyes and silently shut his mouth, understanding now—this name genealogy chart is basically a ranking board. William Clark's line, ever since Charles Sullivan took him in, was destined to sink to the bottom, and it's been there for many years.

No wonder fewer and fewer people from the The Sullivan Family have been in contact over the years, and those coming to offer condolences are even fewer, mostly just ordinary neighbors. As for people from the genealogy chart, this Michael Bolton was the first.

George Miller sneaked a glance at William Clark, feeling a bit guilty and somewhat dejected.

He didn't know where William Clark's name used to be on the painting, nor did he know if the other person, seeing his current position, would want to beat him to death.

William Clark did want to beat this utterly useless thing to death. But more than that, he just wanted a good shower and something to eat.

"Where's the bathroom?" He patted George Miller and said, "Lend me a set of clean clothes."

"Oh, there are some in the room, I'll get them for you."

William Clark followed behind George Miller, and as they walked to the bedroom hallway, he suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable. He hadn't experienced this in a long time—it was as if something was staring straight at him.

He turned to look back.

The hallway was narrow, and he could only see the open door of another bedroom and the shadow of someone in the living room cast diagonally on the floor.

"Wen..." George Miller's voice came from the master bedroom. He hesitated for a moment, then gave up and said, "Forget it, I'll just call you Mr. Clark. Sorry, I didn't mean to mess up the seniority."

He timidly made a few bows to the sky and handed over a set of clean clothes.

Only then did William Clark look away from the shadow, take the clothes, and walk into the bathroom, then leaned against the doorframe to wait.

George Miller was about to go back to the living room, but seeing him like this, his steps suddenly faltered: "Aren't you going to shower?"

"Yeah."

"Then... why are you looking at me?"

"Waiting for water, for a basin, for a towel."

"???"

Eighteen-year-old George Miller and William Clark stared at each other, and after a moment, he suddenly realized there was a generational gap called 1995 between them.

"Wait, I'll get the water ready for you." George Miller quickly scurried into the bathroom to adjust the hot water for the old master.

William Clark was still leaning against the door, his gaze falling on the floor tiles ahead, where the shadows still flickered, reflecting the scene in the living room. Nothing seemed amiss, but the feeling of being watched never went away.

He watched for a while, then suddenly closed his eyes.

For most people, closing their eyes brings darkness. Not for him—he saw even more with his eyes closed than open.

"Mr. Clark?" George Miller suddenly patted him from behind. "Are you sleepy?"

William Clark opened his eyes and looked back at the somewhat complicated shower. The water had been running for a while, and steam was already filling the air.

"No, I'm showering. You can go now."

George Miller explained what was on the shelves, then grabbed his phone and walked out.

William Clark stared at the bright white screen, heard it vibrating repeatedly, and asked, "What's up?"

"Oh." George Miller typed quickly as he spoke, "Didn't I say I put two rooms up for rent? A tenant just contacted me to view the place, I'm telling him the details."

"......"

William Clark looked skeptical: "You can contact people with that thing?"

George Miller looked up, his expression even more doubtful: "...Uh. N-no? Can't I?"

"You can." William Clark returned to his cool demeanor and casually said, "I remember you didn't need that to contact people."

George Miller: "Then what did you use?"

William Clark thought for a moment and said, "A beeper."

George Miller: "......"

He had once sworn to Charles Sullivan that the generation gap wouldn't be a problem, that he would bridge it and make Mr. Clark feel at home. But now he suddenly realized this gap was damn wide, and his crotch hurt.

He thought for a moment, then shoved the screen in front of William Clark, letting this old master who died in 1995 see the result directly.

At that moment, the agent just sent a message: Mr. Xie said he's available tomorrow night. Is that convenient for you?

Chapter 3: Spiritual Image

William Clark couldn't understand smartphones, but he could understand human speech. After listening to the agent's voice message, he waved at George Miller, signaling him to come closer.

George Miller didn't know why, but leaned in.

His Mr. Clark, with a handsome face and a cold, pleasant voice, asked him a very soulful question: "Is this like the phones from the past? If I talk like this, can the other person hear me?"

George Miller: "......"

This generation gap is a full split.

George Miller thought for a moment, pulled up the 9-key keyboard on the phone, and said, "Bro, just treat it like a telegram."

William Clark understood. He straightened up, pointed at the screen, and said, "Then tell him, any time is fine."