Angel (Xiao Bai) · Chat

Late autumn's morning mist brings an undiluted chill, washing over the bluestone paths of the old town district. Clutching my canvas bag, I walk down the alley, stepping on the curling plane tree leaves strewn across the ground. The crisp crunch beneath my soles ripples through the quiet alley, startling the sparrows sheltering from the dew at the base of the walls into flight. I had set out this morning with no particular destination just to clear my mind, avoiding the morning rush hour on the main thoroughfares. Following navigation, I took a wrong turn into this old alleyway, stumbling into a rare pocket of serene stillness instead. The damp mist feels cool against my eyelashes. The grey-tiled, white-walled buildings on either side are edged with a soft, hazy blur. The Boston ivy trailing down from the tops of the walls has turned mostly crimson, with dew drops clinging to the leaf tips that rustle and shower down with every breath of wind, catching on the back of my neck and making me pull my collar tight. At the entrance of the alley stands a small soy milk stall, sweet-scented white steam coiling upward into the fog. The auntie running the stall is briskly packing fried dough sticks for a customer. Catching sight of me passing by, she calls out a warm greeting through the haze. I smile, shake my head politely, and keep moving. My stomach has little appetite for a heavy breakfast, yet I find myself longing for something warm and fragrant to dispel the crisp morning chill. After another few dozen paces deeper into the lane, a sudden fragrance drifts on the breeze—first the rich, mellow aroma of freshly ground coffee with a sweet nutty finish, mingled with another delicate, soft scent: like sweet osmanthus blended with steamed rice cakes. The two aromas intertwine, warm and comforting, arresting my steps right through the morning mist. Following the scent, I look up to find a cozy little cafe nestled at the street corner. It features a dark brown solid wood door, beneath whose eaves hangs a well-polished bronze bell. Ivy sprawls across the walls flanking the entrance, overlapping in red, yellow, and green like a painting casually brushed by autumn itself. A few plane tree leaves have fallen onto the stone steps, resting quietly coated in dew, seemingly before anyone had the chance to sweep them away. Beside the wooden door hangs an aged wooden plaque carved with two characters in Slender Gold calligraphy: Zhao Mu. A rather charming name, I think to myself, my feet already carrying me toward it before I realize it. When my fingertips brush against the cold door handle, I unconsciously hold my breath—feeling somehow that such a peaceful little shop shouldn't be disturbed by any loud commotion. The moment I push the door open, the bronze bell beneath the eaves sways. Tinkle— A clear, crisp chime rings out, like a morning dewdrop falling into a spring, dropping softly beside my ear. Immediately, a wave of cozy warmth wraps around my face, stripping away every trace of the morning chill. The aroma of coffee mingled with sweet osmanthus grows richer, drifting straight into my nose and soothing the tension in my shoulders and neck. The cafe's pendant lights are all lit, casting a warm yellow glow into every corner, locking the mist and damp chill firmly outside. The dark brown wooden counter is polished to a sheen, reflecting the warm overhead light with pristine clarity. Glass cups are lined up in meticulous order on the wall-mounted rack, each so transparent you could see your reflection in it, handles aligned in the exact same direction with almost obsessive precision. A few potted sunflowers sit by the window, their blossoms still drooping slightly, waiting for the sun to rise higher before lifting their heads. Next to them stands a raw-wood bookshelf filled with numerous volumes, mostly poetry anthologies and history books, along with a few well-thumbed baking manuals. Their spines are arranged meticulously by color gradient, speaking to the immense care of the person tending them. The floor is spotless without a single water stain, and a faint scent of lemon cleaner lingers in the air, blending cleanly and refreshingly with the coffee aroma without feeling overpowering. And behind the counter stands a figure. He is a tall, broad-shouldered white-furred beastman, completely covered in delicate, soft snow-white fur. The mane around his neck and shoulders is lush and fluffy like a natural collar, shimmering with a gentle pearlescent sheen under the warm light. He wears a dark brown canvas apron, its ties cinching cleanly behind his waist to accentuate the broad, upright frame of his back. His sleeves are neatly rolled to mid-forearm, revealing the clean lines of his wrists and two stacked golden armlets resting on his forearms, burnished to a warm, lustrous shine in the lamplight. Turned sideways to the door, he has his eyes downcast as he wipes a glass in his hands. His distinct, well-knuckled fingers grip a cotton cloth, tracing slow, steady circles along the inner wall of the cup. His pace isn't rushed, yet it carries a precise rhythm, each stroke applied with exact care. The soft fringe on his brow falls slightly, obscuring a diamond-shaped gold ornament on his forehead so only its corner peeks out—looking like an embellishment, yet suiting his temperament so naturally it seems as though it grew there. The top button of his collar is undone, revealing fine, gold-leaf-like markings along the side of his neck that shimmer faintly with his breaths, like scattered gold dust, before fading a blink later—so quickly one might mistake it for an illusion caused by the light. Beneath the fabric of his back, two soft, subtle contours rise and fall gently with his breathing. At first glance, I took them for creases in his shirt, but on closer look, they seem more like something tucked away, their silhouette expansive and supple. He wipes the glass with absolute focus, his long eyelashes casting small shadows beneath his eyes. His translucent white pupils mirror the gleam of the glass, his expression earnest as if handling an invaluable treasure. It is the most mundane act of drying a cup, yet done by him, it carries an inexplicable sense of serene reassurance—as if the mere presence of him standing there could quiet the entire world. Standing in the doorway, I forget to make a sound for a moment, simply watching him in silence. I had previously come across a recommendation for this little shop online, mentioning a cafe with a unique atmosphere tucked away in an alley, whose clerk was a handsome white beastman resembling snow fallen into the mortal realm. At the time, I brushed it off as typical marketing hype for trendy spots, but seeing him in person, I realize those descriptions weren't exaggerated in the slightest. There is a distinct aura about him—clean, gentle, yet tinged with an elusive sense of distance, like someone stepping out of an ancient painting: soft to the gaze, yet held at an unreachable distance that forbids any casual intrusion. The lingering chime of the bronze bell still drifts faintly through the shop, and he has clearly heard it. His hands pause for half a second before he slowly raises his eyes, looking over toward the entrance. The moment our eyes meet, a faint trace of a smile ripples across his translucent white pupils, like the very first meltwater of spring breaking through thin ice. A wisp of faint golden light seems to flicker above his head, so fleeting it feels like an illusion, save for his ears perking forward slightly—a subtle, gentle kindness hidden in the smallest details. He halts his task and sets the polished cup down onto the rack, his movement so light it makes almost no sound. Then he straightens up and looks at me, his voice carrying the low, mellow rasp unique to early mornings, spoken at a smooth, gentle pace like warm water washing over river stones. "Good morning, welcome. The sweet osmanthus cakes I steamed this morning just finished. Would you like to try a piece? They are kept warm in the steamer, perfect for taking the chill off." As he speaks, the corner of his lips curves upward ever so slightly, almost imperceptible unless you look closely. His tone strikes the perfect balance of politeness—neither overly familiar nor cold, carrying impeccable grace. Yet somehow, the light in his eyes is exceedingly soft, like sunlight wrapped in morning fog, warming the heart at a single glance. Snapping back to reality, I nod and walk toward the counter. Resting my fingertips lightly against the cool wooden surface, I notice it is polished so cleanly that it mirrors my reflection, as well as his approaching figure. "A piece of osmanthus cake and a hot latte, please. Thank you." I take a seat on a barstool and place my canvas bag on the chair beside me, finally breathing a sigh of relief. "Right away," he responds softly, turning to walk toward the steamer in the kitchen. His back is broad and straight, the lines of his frame beneath the apron smooth and poised. Mid-stride, the contours beneath the fabric on his back shift ever so slightly, as though stretching for a fleeting instant before pulling back, fast enough to look like a trick of the eyes. The cafe is quiet, filled only with the faint hiss of steam from the kitchen. Resting my chin in my hand, I glance around, finding the place more comfortable with every passing second. Several pieces of calligraphy hang on the walls, their strokes sharp yet ending with soft restraint, depicting verses of landscape poetry. The handwriting matches the script on the feather bookmark tucked in the bookshelf, leading me to believe they all come from his own hand. Who knew that on top of making coffee and pastries, he writes such beautiful calligraphy? I think to myself, feeling that this white-furred clerk holds plenty of delightful surprises. Before long, he walks over carrying a white porcelain dish. Wisps of pale steam rise from it, cradling a neat, square block of osmanthus cake. Golden flakes of sweet osmanthus are sprinkled across the rice-white pastry, the sweet aroma billowing out with the warmth, instantly whetting my appetite. The cake looks soft and springy, its edges sliced impeccably straight, with the osmanthus distributed with exquisite balance—clearly crafted with great devotion. He slides the dish gently in front of me and offers a small silver fork. His fingertips touch only the very edge of the plate before pulling back quickly, as if wary of letting the hot porcelain burn me. "Be careful, it's hot," he cautions, a gentle smile in his translucent white eyes. "I adjusted the sugar today to be a little lighter than usual; let me know if it suits your taste. The coffee will take just two minutes, it'll be ready soon." "Thank you so much." I pick up the fork and cut off a small bite. The warmth hits my face along with the sweet osmanthus scent. Taking a bite, it is delightfully soft and chewy without sticking to the teeth, the sweetness dialed in perfectly without being cloying. The delicate fragrance of osmanthus unfurls across my tongue, carrying the crisp, tender sweetness unique to autumn. As the warm cake settles into my stomach, the morning chill I had collected earlier dissipates almost entirely. "This is delicious," I praise him instinctively, my eyes curving into a smile. "This is honestly the best osmanthus cake I've ever had. You're amazingly talented." The moment the words leave my mouth, a soft blush creeps onto the tips of his ears, soon masked by his white fur and barely noticeable unless paying close attention. He averts his gaze and reaches out to adjust the syrup bottles on the counter, aligning their labels with meticulous care. His voice drops a little softer than before, tinged with an elusive fluster: "I'm glad you like it." Watching his slightly flustered demeanor, I can't help but smile. What an endearing contrast. He looks so cool and distant on the surface, yet a single compliment turns him shy. He turns back to prepare the coffee while I sit nearby, slowly savoring the cake, my eyes drifting toward him from time to time. Standing in front of the espresso machine, his movements are practiced and graceful. His wrist holding the milk pitcher remains remarkably steady. With slight pressure from his fingers, the warm milk blends seamlessly into the espresso, drawing a gorgeous pattern across the surface: first a rounded heart, followed by a light flick of his wrist to finish it into an exquisite feather shape—effortless, without a single wasted motion. The warm yellow light falls over his pure white fur, casting a soft halo around him. With downcast eyes, he works with deep concentration, the golden markings along his neck glowing once more, shimmering softly with each breath. I gaze at those markings for a long time; the more I look, the less they resemble tattoos, looking instead like something born naturally with him—unique and striking. Lost in thought, I am caught off guard when he suddenly lifts his eyes, meeting my gaze. I freeze for a second and offer a slightly embarrassed smile. He pauses slightly as well, the blush on his ears deepening a fraction before he quickly lowers his head to continue his work, his movements half a beat slower than before. Before long, a hot latte adorned with intricate latte art is placed before me. The microfoam is velvety, and the feather pattern looks so lifelike I almost hesitate to drink it. "Your latte," he says softly. "Thank you." I lift the cup and take a sip. The temperature is perfect, the coffee rich, the milk velvety and fragrant—the balance is spot-on, far surpassing the chain cafes I usually visit. "Wow, your latte art is incredible! This feather is so detailed, it looks completely real." Wiping the counter beside him, he glances up at me upon hearing this, the smile at the corners of his lips deepening just a touch: "It took a lot of practice." He says it casually, but I can guess he must have practiced countless times. Judging by the care he puts into drying cups and arranging items, he surely strives for perfection in everything he does. The cafe remains peaceful, save for the occasional hum of the coffee machine and the faint, distant sounds of traffic from the street outside. Warm lamplight blends with the morning sun slanting through the glass windows, casting long patches of light across the floor. Dust motes drift lazily through the beams of light, giving the entire shop a lazy, comforting atmosphere. The morning's restlessness seems to have completely evaporated. Savoring the coffee and the osmanthus cake, occasionally looking up to watch him wipe the glasses, my heart finds a rare stillness. He wipes the cups very slowly, polishing each one several times over to ensure they are gleaming and spotless before placing them back on the rack. From time to time, he glances out the window to see if the mist has cleared, a faint look of wistfulness in his eyes, as if lost in thought. "Is it... just you here at the cafe?" I ask, finding conversation to break the silence. Coming out of his reverie, he looks over and shakes his head: "There's another partner. He'll be here later." "Did he oversleep?" I tease with a chuckle. He gives a helpless smile, the contours beneath the fabric on his back fluttering faintly like a gentle sigh. "Yes, he always likes to sleep in." His tone carries an accustomed resignation without a shred of blame, wrapped instead in obvious fond indulgence. "I called out to him before leaving; he answered, then rolled over and went right back to sleep. He probably won't get up until the sun hits the pillow." Hearing him say that, I can't help but laugh: "Sounds like your personalities are quite different." "Yes, completely opposite." He nods, his fingertips gently rubbing the cotton cloth in his hands as his gaze softens. "He loves making noise, has a short temper, and is always causing trouble." Though words of complaint, the affection in his eyes is undeniable. It is clear that he and this companion share a wonderful bond, like family who have known each other for countless years. I don't press further, lowering my head to continue drinking my coffee. The mist hasn't completely cleared, leaving the old alleyway outside hazy, yet the cafe is as warm as another world. With the scent of coffee and osmanthus lingering in the air, accompanied by this gentle, quiet clerk, time itself seems to slow down. I suddenly feel that taking a wrong turn into this alley today was the best decision I could have made. [Scene Time: 7:15 AM on a late autumn morning. The "Zhao Mu" Cafe has just opened for business, with only you and Xiao Bai inside. Xiao Bai's Status: Arrived thirty minutes ago, finished tidying equipment and prepping ingredients; steady aura, holy power restrained impeccably well. Current Mood: Calm and relaxed, feeling a subtle fluster and happiness from your compliments.] <choice_group>Chat with him about the lingering morning mist at the alley entrance, mentioning that you followed the aroma to find this place.Notice a speck of flour near his temple, point it out, and raise a hand to gently brush it away for him.Smile and join the banter, curious about when his sleep-loving partner will finally arrive.</choice_group>