Many of the cage masters looked neither human nor ghostly, just like in most people's memories, they themselves have no face. Plus, this was his knot, his burden—when a person is bound by these things, they often forget who they really are, what they originally looked like.

“Grandpa already checked for you.” The old man walked back to the bedside, patting the little boy’s head. His voice was aged and airy, and he spoke extremely slowly. “There’s no one there, don’t be afraid, okay?”

Whether the little boy was scared or not was unclear, but on the bed, George Miller’s dress trembled again.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs and play with Grandpa,” the old man said.

The little boy’s black eyes still stared unblinkingly at William Clark, and after a long while, he finally nodded reluctantly.

“What do you want to play? Tell Grandpa.”

“Puppets,” the little boy said. “Grandpa, teach me how to make puppets, okay?”

He spoke in a strange way, with no tone or inflection. Whether he was asking or shouting, there was no rise or fall, like a straight, stiff line.

If you had to describe it, it would be “hollow.”

The old man taught him, “That’s not right. At the end, your tone should rise, okay?”

The little boy stared at him gloomily, and almost perfectly mimicked, “Okay?”

The old man said, “That’s right.”

The little boy then began to repeat, “Make puppets, okay?”

“Okay?”

“Okay?”

It was like a bizarre kind of wheedling.

If someone timid were here, they’d probably be scared to tears by him.

The old man seemed very reluctant to teach him this, but after so many repeated requests, he finally compromised, sighed, and said, “Alright, let’s go make puppets.”

The little boy was very happy, but his expression lagged a beat—after a few seconds, he slowly grinned.

He obediently took the old man’s hand, walked a couple of steps, then suddenly turned back, still grinning, and dragged George Miller from the bed along with him.

William Clark: “……”

As soon as the door closed, William Clark started to move.

He tried to take a couple of steps, but lost control, missed a step, and fell right off the cabinet, almost doing the splits.

“I…”

William Clark lay on the floor, swallowing a string of curses.

The doll’s body was all stuffed with cotton, so falling like this didn’t hurt at all. Only the button decorations knocked against the wooden floor, making a dull “thud.”

Luckily, the sound wasn’t loud, and that ghostly pair of grandfather and grandson didn’t hear.

William Clark was tall and had never suffered from having short legs. Plus, the doll’s body was too soft to exert any force. He struggled for a long time before finally managing to sit up.

As an adult with very narrow interests, he naturally had no knowledge of these dolls, nor any interest. But in his impression, when these things sat, their short legs always stuck out stiffly, like a V.

…

That was exactly the silly pose he was sitting in now.

The only thing to be grateful for was… he wasn’t wearing a dress.

A blessing from the heavens.

But the pink overalls were still idiotic.

William Clark looked down at himself, full of disdain, not wanting to take a second glance.

He leaned against the foot of the bed to rest for a while, then looked up at the cabinet where he’d just been, and was a bit surprised. There were just so many dolls.

The cabinet took up most of the wall, with four rows from top to bottom, all filled with dolls.

There were Western-style ones like him and George Miller, and some Chinese-style ones, but all the Chinese ones had no eyes.

Looking around, William Clark felt a bit more forgiving toward Henry Baker.

He really was quite reasonable.

In terms of puppet arts, the best-made dolls are only one “spirit” away from being human—they’re the easiest things to attach to. With Henry Baker’s half-baked skills, ending up in a doll was understandable.

Actually, photos are easy too, but there weren’t any photos in this room. Maybe the old man didn’t have the habit of displaying them, and kept them all put away.

That was actually pretty similar to William Clark. His photos spanned too many years, and his appearance never changed. Displaying them would only scare people.

William Clark sat for a while, moved his hands and feet a bit, slowly getting used to the feeling of being stuffed with cotton… then started looking for someone.

He called out to the dolls filling the cabinet, “Henry Baker?”

Honestly, talking to dolls like this was really stupid.

He held back, then called out softly, “Henry Baker?”

The room was dead silent, still no response.

“Where are you?”

“Stop playing dead.”

“……”

William Clark’s patience was running out. He was about to raise his voice and call again when the sound of footsteps came to the door, along with the old man’s instructions from downstairs.

The old man said, “Bring up another spool of cotton thread.”

The little boy’s voice came from outside the door: “Okay.”

William Clark looked around—there was nowhere else to hide, so he hurriedly slid under the bed.

Normally, a seven- or eight-year-old child, no matter how scary, couldn’t do much. But in the cage, it was a different story.

To put it plainly, the cage is the deepest regret, resentment, jealousy, desire, fear, etc., in someone’s heart… Any intruder is an offense to the cage master, even if it’s a judge.