The sun had climbed to its zenith, casting winter in a strange, almost alien light. Its brightness seemed polite, distant, as though hesitant to warm the scarred earth beneath the frost. Shadows stretched thin across ruined walls and skeletal trees, bending unnaturally around splintered roofs and frozen courtyards.
From the carriage window, I watched soldiers labor to clear debris and repair the scars of conflict. Shovels scraped ice and mud, axes cleaved broken beams, and brooms swept fragments into neat piles. Women dressed in blue gowns and stark white pinafore aprons moved briskly among them, their uniforms echoing the chill and severity of the snow that lay like bone upon the ground. Even the wind seemed hesitant, curling around the remnants of war with a whispering chill.
After a while, the carriage halted. The horses stamped, exhaling plumes of frosted breath. The door opened, and there he stood—Heiwa's brother, clad in a military uniform, bandages crisscrossing his arms and chest, yet upright, steady, alive. His eyes, sharp and aware, softened when they fell on Heiwa.
In the next heartbeat, Heiwa leapt from the carriage, her movements swift, fluid, and instinctual, and threw herself into his embrace. Relief stiffened my smile, almost making it brittle. Miss Lakshmi and Miss Halle offered polite bows, acknowledging the reunion with calm propriety, their serenity unbroken. I followed suit, lingering at the edges of the scene, my gaze roving the field, questions stirring with every blink: what was left untouched, what might recover, what would never return to its proper shape.
"Thank you for taking care of my sister and Miss Victoria. You must allow me to show my appreciation, in some measure," Heiwa's brother said, bowing deeply.
"It was no trouble on my side," Miss Lakshmi replied, returning the bow with measured grace, her eyes briefly meeting Heiwa's before settling elsewhere.
I lingered, feeling like a superfluous shadow at the edges of their connection, the winter light cutting sharply around us, crisp and cold against the warmth of their reunion.
"Oh! I see—you are in good health," a familiar voice called, drawing my attention. Dōngzhi emerged, her red yukata stark against the snow, bandages wrapped around her limbs, clutching herself as though to stay upright. Halfway to the carriage, I rushed to her side.
"Are you alright?" I asked softly, cradling the parts of her that seemed untouched by pain, my voice trembling with a mixture of concern and relief.
"Dear, dear," she murmured, rubbing my head gently, eyes bright with quiet reassurance. The city, the devastation, the uncertainty—all felt impossibly distant. In its place, warmth—a familiar hearth of comfort—welled around me, grounding me in a sense of home I had feared lost.
"How are the others?" I asked after a long, careful pause, my voice softened by exhaustion and the lingering chill.
"They're all right," she said, lifting my face in her hands, her touch steady and calming. "Come, let us head to the shrine. There is someone who wishes to see you all."
Her grip eased, though the warmth lingered like a faint, comforting ember. I glanced toward Heiwa, already striding forward with her brother and the others, her movements precise, confident, and free of hesitation now, and allowed myself a quiet, shuddering breath of anticipation.
The sun lingered unconquered in the winter sky—bright, yes, but drained of heat, as though the season itself had reserved its energy for quieter, subtler victories. Snowflakes swirled around the edges of the field, drifting against ruined rooftops, faint prisms of light catching in the cold. In that clash of light and frost, loss and reunion, the city seemed to hold its breath, as though waiting to see if hope could endure alongside ruin.
And I—watching, feeling, breathing—found a small fragment of it, fragile yet real, nestling beside the ever-present ache of what had been endured.
---