We kept walking, because that was what one did after surviving.
Carts rattled past us along the ruined streets, their wheels crunching over frost and broken stone. Some carried debris—splintered beams, shattered masonry—others hauled artillery toward the coast, their iron bellies cold and patient. The war had not ended; it had merely learned to speak more quietly.
Medical personnel moved through the wreckage with purposeful calm. They treated wounds where they found them, hands red and steady, while others distributed supplies—thick coats pressed into numb arms, bowls of steaming food ladled out as though warmth itself were medicine.
"As there had been no relief for some time," Miss Dōngzhi said, noticing my gaze, "our stores were bled dry during the fighting."
There was relief in the faces around us. Exhaustion, too—but relief won the day. The looks exchanged between soldiers were simple, almost childish in their honesty: we lived. That alone felt like a miracle rationed just enough to go around.
"Hope was measured carefully," she continued, her tone light but her eyes sharp. "But time is greedy. It always takes more than you expect."
Not all of it was good news.
Another cart passed, this one carrying bodies wrapped in canvas. Some soldiers turned away. Others stared too long, as though afraid the dead might accuse them if they didn't bear witness. I didn't pretend to understand their grief—but I felt its outline, like cold through gloves.
The winter air brushed past us, gentle, almost apologetic. The moment felt fragile, like thin ice pretending to be solid ground.
My breath misted as I walked, thoughts refusing to settle. People were alive, yes—but life was paused. No one could return to themselves yet.
"They're planning an offensive along the coast," Miss Dōngzhi said when she caught me watching another procession of artillery roll toward the sea.
Miss Lakshmi and Miss Halle walked on without comment, their silence heavier than speech. Heiwa stayed close to her brother, their murmured exchanges brief, practical—anchors thrown between heartbeats.
Eventually, we reached the foot of the hill.
I had expected grandeur. The former Empress's retirement estate, perhaps. Instead, our destination was the shrine.
The hill itself bore the marks of violence—stone torn and split, a jagged ridge rising like a broken wall against the sky. Soldiers stood watch along the path as we climbed, their salutes restrained but sincere.
At the summit, familiar faces awaited us. The other girls stood together, quieter than I remembered. Among the soldiers was the man I had seen on the night the world came apart—alive, intact, altered only in the way survivors always are.
After brief words with Heiwa's brother, we approached the shrine.
Its doors were old wood, darkened by age and incense, unmarred despite everything. Miss Lakshmi stepped forward and knocked—softly, respectfully.
Snow began to fall.
It layered itself upon the ground, upon the hill, upon memory itself—quiet, patient, pretending it could smooth over what had been done.
We knelt.
Heiwa. Halle. The rest of us.
No one spoke. No one rushed.
We waited, not for salvation, but for permission—to ask, to listen, to understand what kind of future had survived the war.