The kitchen was a mess of steam and cedar, the kind of cozy clutter that only comes from years of living in the same small space. Li Hua stood over the stove, the rhythmic thwack of her wooden ladle against the pot competing with the frantic buzz of cicadas outside. The air tasted of toasted sesame and the sharp, medicinal tang of the incense she kept burning by the family shrine.
"Xinyi! Your rice is getting cold!"
Li Hua wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her forearm. She looked at the empty chair and then at the open window where the curtains snapped like laundry in the evening breeze. The golden hour was fading into a bruised purple, and that familiar, gnawing knot in her gut began to tighten.
"That girl," she muttered, her voice dropping into a weary sigh. "Always chasing the horizon like she expects to find gold at the edge of it."
Xinyi wasn't looking for gold, though. She was looking for the taste of the clouds. She had heard the elders whisper about mountain greens that grew so high they tasted of melted snow. She didn't slip out so much as she vanished. With her woven basket thumping against her hip, she was already a smudge of movement against the dark treeline before the soup had even cooled.
"I'll be back by moonfall, Aunty! Don't let the broth go thin!" her voice drifted back, light and reckless.
Li Hua reached the doorway just in time to see the girl disappear into the brush. "Xinyi!" But the forest had already swallowed her.
The climb was a slow burn in Xinyi's lungs, but she loved the ache. Up here, the village gossip and the pressure of becoming a lady felt small. The moonlight turned the world into a silver plate engraving. She found what she was looking for in a clearing that felt like a cathedral of pine and stone. Wild asparagus shoots, crisp and defiant, and berries that burst like sweet wine on the tongue. She worked in a trance, her fingers stained dark with juice and earth. For a moment, she just stood there, breathing in sync with the mountain.
When she finally creaked open the back door later that night, the house was silent save for the low hiss of a dying lamp. Li Hua was sitting at the table, her back straight and her shadow long against the wall.
"You're late," Li Hua said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had the weight of a stone.
Xinyi didn't shrink. She dumped the basket onto the table, a vibrant and messy heap of mountain treasure. "The village market doesn't have anything like this. I wanted you to taste them."
Li Hua looked at the greens and then at the dirt streaked across Xinyi's cheek. The lecture died in her throat. She reached out, her calloused thumb brushing the soil away from the girl's face. "You're a terror," she whispered, though her eyes were shining. "Go wash. Your bowl is covered on the stove."
The peace didn't last long. The next afternoon, the clack-clack of geta sandals on the path signaled trouble. Three village women cornered Li Hua in the garden while she was thinning the radishes.
"Li Hua, dear," the eldest began, fanning herself with a predatory grace. "We've been talking. The Tanaka boy, a good family with plenty of land. It's time Xinyi had a proper house. She's getting wild."
Li Hua didn't look up. She felt that old memory stir, the day she found a bundle of silk and a screaming infant nestled among the orchids. She remembered the way those tiny fingers had locked onto hers, a silent pact made in a garden years ago.
"Xinyi is fine where she is," Li Hua said, her voice like grinding gravel.
"But a girl without a husband is like a vine without a pole!" another woman chimed in. "And you, Li Hua, you could still find a match if you weren't so tied down to a girl with no name."
Li Hua stood up. She didn't just stand; she uncoiled. She was a head taller than the gossips, smelling of damp earth and iron.
"Shut up."
The word hit the air like a slap. The women recoiled, their fans frozen mid-flick.
"Xinyi is my heart, not a piece of livestock to be traded for a better harvest," Li Hua said, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood. "She has a home. She has a name. And as long as I am breathing, she has a choice. Now, get out before I start treating you like the weeds you are."
As they scrambled away, Li Hua looked up toward the mountains. Xinyi was up there somewhere, probably climbing a tree or stalking a deer. Li Hua smiled, a small and fierce thing she is.
Let them whisper. Xinyi didn't care about village talk, and neither did she.