Winter was finally tying a bow around itself.
The sun traced pale lines across the sky, and wherever its reach extended, warmth followed—tentative, cautious, but undeniably real. Snow lingered only in stubborn corners now, retreating like an argument no one cared enough to finish.
I exhaled slowly and drew the arrow back.
The bowstring tightened beneath my fingers, a quiet hum of tension settling into my shoulders. The air bit at my lungs, sharp and clean—but the ache in my chest had nothing to do with the cold.
The war was over.
That truth still felt fragile, like glass fresh from the kiln. Life was being pieced together again—carefully, selectively. Shops reopened. Voices returned. Laughter tested the air, half-expecting to be punished for existing.
And yet—
Heiwa.
The thought arrived uninvited.
I knew I hadn't been my best. I knew that much. Whatever I'd sealed away—fear, resentment, pride, shame—it had fermented into something meaner than I intended. Silence, sharpened just enough to hurt. I told myself I needed time. I told myself distance would make things clearer.
If I was honest, I'd liked the control.
I loosed the arrow.
It struck the target with a dull thunk. Not dead center—but closer than yesterday. Progress. After several days under Dōngzhí's relentless supervision, my aim had improved.
My heart lagged behind.
I lowered the bow and tipped my face toward the sky, squinting against the light.
"Oh—there you are."
Heiwa's voice wavered, just slightly, as though she hadn't meant to be heard.
I turned.
She stood a short distance away, hands folded together too neatly, gaze fixed on the ground. Birds sang overhead, blissfully ignorant, filling the silence we refused to touch.
"Did I…" She hesitated, then steadied herself. "Did I do something to upset you?"
The question hit harder than an accusation ever could.
We hadn't spoken—not really—in days. We passed each other. Exchanged necessities. Functioned. And some smaller, uglier part of me had taken comfort in the distance. If she was hurting too, then maybe it was fair.
Am I really that small?
The thought struck clean and deep.
Words stalled. My eyes burned, caught somewhere between irritation and grief, and I hated that I couldn't tell which one I deserved.
"I heard you've been taking archery lessons," she said, lifting her gaze at last. "I—I could help, if you want."
Her eyes were the same as when she was earnest—bright, intent—but now they shimmered, blue like gemstones held underwater.
Something in me gave.
Not loudly. Not cleanly. Just enough.
"Ugh," I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. The weight of my own behavior settled heavy in my stomach.
"I wanted to get you something nice," I said finally, the words awkward, guilty.
"Hm?" Her brows knit together.
"Never mind." I turned away, staring at the washed-out sky like it owed me answers.
We sat in the grass together, the space between us smaller now—still careful, but no longer defensive.
"The war is over," she said softly. "We can go buy it. Whatever you wanted. There's time now."
"That's… not the point," I murmured, lightly tapping one of her horns in mild irritation.
She didn't pull away.
My throat felt raw, like I'd swallowed something sharp. I looked at her—hoping she wouldn't ask more, afraid she would.
Progress, I realized, didn't always look like honesty.
Sometimes it looked like restraint.
"Here," she said, offering me a piece of mochi.
I took it. We shared the rest in silence, the sweetness grounding us. Beneath the pale sun, the moment stitched itself together—not whole, but holding.
Peace. Fragile. Unfinished.
"Good to see everything's still in one piece."
The voice cut through the air.
We both turned.