By the time we finished tidying up after a late second breakfast, the shrine had loosened back into its familiar rhythm. Bowls were stacked, cloths wrung dry, and everyone drifted away to their own corners as if pulled by invisible threads.
Dōngzhí, of course, refused all offers of help.
"You should go for a walk or something," she said when I asked what else needed doing, already elbow-deep in dishes. Her tone left no room for negotiation.
When I lingered, uncertain, she added, "Look around town for me. Pick up a few items." A smile tugged at her lips—not quite teasing, not quite kind. "Staying cooped up for too long isn't good for you."
She turned back to her work before I could respond.
"Oh—and no training," she called after me. "Take Victoria with you."
The decision was made.
I stepped out of the kitchen and exhaled, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. It felt strange, having nothing urgent to do. No instructions to follow beyond walk, look, buy. Peace, it seemed, came with its own discomfort.
Victoria's door was partially open. When I looked inside, I found her sprawled on her futon, twisting restlessly as though sleep had rejected her halfway through.
"Miss Dōngzhí wants us to take a walk," I said softly as I entered, reaching for my book. "She also needs us to pick up a few things."
"Mmm," Victoria hummed, then sat up in one fluid motion. "That actually sounds good." She was already moving, already dressing. "Where to?"
"The market," I replied, holding up the list. "She was very specific."
She wrinkled her nose. "Not exactly thrilling, but fine." She smoothed out her yukata with practiced care, as if preparing herself for more than just errands.
Outside, the town felt fuller than it had the day before. Not healed—just… breathing again. Stalls were open, voices layered over one another, and people did their best with what remained. The damage hadn't vanished, but it had stopped being the only thing anyone could see.
"Miss, mushrooms! Fresh ones!" a trader called.
I checked the list and stepped toward him, while Victoria drifted off toward a stall glittering with jewelry. Glass beads, metal pins, bits of lacquered wood—small, pretty things pretending the world was stable enough to want them.
"All right, Victoria, let's keep moving," I called.
She turned back with a smile already formed. "You should get this hairpin."
The merchant nodded eagerly, holding it up so the light caught just right.
"We don't have money to waste," I said, more sharply than I meant to, eyes dropping back to the list. "We still need fish."
She didn't argue. That, more than anything, unsettled me.
As we walked, I noticed members of the Church helping repair a stretch of road—lifting stones, setting planks, working quietly alongside townsfolk. No fanfare. No sermons.
"Do you think the Church will stay after all this?" I asked.
"I don't know," Victoria said.
And then nothing more.
Silence settled between us, heavier than it should have been. I searched for something—anything—to bridge it.
"Those flowers are nice," I said, gesturing to a stand bursting with color.
She glanced, nodded once, and looked away.
Why is she so quiet? I wondered. My thoughts circled uneasily. Is it the training? She'd been pushing herself relentlessly, day after day, with no visible breakthrough. And yet—she never complained. There was something stubborn and admirable in that. Something lonely, too.
She stopped walking and stared toward the second sun, lips parting as if to speak. Then she hesitated.
"Are we done?" she asked at last. "We should head back."
"Yeah," I said quickly, stepping ahead to lead. "Let's go."
We walked home through streets touched by sunlight and softened by lingering fog. The town seemed caught between states—between what it had been and what it might become.
And walking beside her, I realized something quietly unsettling:
We spent so much time surviving together that we rarely stopped to actually know each other.
Maybe this was what Dōngzhí had meant.
Not rest.
Not errands.
Just space enough for something to surface—and for us to find ourselves.