People moved through the streets in small currents, stepping carefully around broken places, gathering what could still be gathered. In between the labor, there were fragments of celebration—thin, tentative, like a smile that hadn't decided whether it was allowed to stay.
We returned from the market as dusk crept in, our breath clouding in the cold. Dongzhì immediately set about preparing the meal, her hands steady and practiced, while directing Heiwa and me toward the next task with gentle efficiency.
"Go on," she said, waving us away. "You'll be needed."
We changed into our red kimonos, the fabric warm against our skin, ceremonial without feeling grand. When we stepped outside to receive visitors to the shrine, the color stood out sharply against the snow—small defiance stitched into cloth.
There weren't many people.
Still, those who came bowed deeply, offered coins, murmured prayers meant to hold for another year. Some smiled. Some didn't. All of them lingered just a little longer than usual, as if reluctant to leave a place that still promised protection.
I noticed red lanterns being strung across a nearby shopfront. A shop owner mentioned there would be music later, though his voice lacked conviction. Celebration, it seemed, was something everyone was *attempting* rather than achieving.
"The snow is still here," Heiwa murmured, fingers lightly clutching her sleeve.
"It's been with us for a while," she added, as though the statement needed confirming.
I followed her gaze upward. The sky was pale and heavy, pressing low. When I inhaled, the cold burned—fire in my lungs, smoke behind my eyes. I wondered briefly if that was what surviving felt like after all: breathing air that hurt, and doing it anyway.
After the trickle of visitors slowed, we retreated inside.
"Happy New Year," Dongzhì said, handing us envelopes with both hands.
"Happy New Year," I replied, bowing as I accepted mine.
"That's… today," Heiwa said, her expression complicated. There was something she wanted to add—I could see it gather at the edge of her mouth—but she let it dissolve instead.
The city tried its best to dress itself for the season. Lanterns, decorations, sweet smells in the air. But the spirit lagged behind, cautious and bruised, unsure whether it was safe to fully arrive.
Later, after Dongzhì helped redo our hair with careful fingers, she turned back to preparing mochi. Heiwa and I sat nearby, peeling tangerines. The citrus scent cut through the cold sweetness of rice and sugar, painting warmth onto a world still white and raw.
I read from a novel Dongzhì had lent me, though the words drifted in and out of focus. Silence settled between us—not empty, not comfortable. Just there.
Heiwa opened her mouth once. Closed it. Then returned to her writing—calligraphy, neat and deliberate, strokes repeated until they bordered on ritual.
Maybe a brush would have been better, I thought, the idea arriving with a tangle of emotions I didn't fully untie.
I stretched my legs and exhaled, staring up at the ceiling beams. The house breathed softly around us, wood settling, heat shifting. The silence felt strained, like fabric pulled too tight and in that seam, time seemed to slow to a crawl.
The New Year had arrived.
And yet, sitting there beside Heiwa, it felt like the world hadn't quite decided what it meant to begin again.