The city had begun to breathe again.
After the New Year festival, it was as though someone had loosened a tight band around the town's chest. Not healed—no, not yet—but breathing. As Heiwa and I walked the main street, the stones beneath our feet felt warmer, less hostile, as if they remembered being loved once. Shopfronts that had stood shuttered like coffins were open now, their wooden doors thrown wide, bells chiming with every hopeful step inside.
"Miss, could I interest you in some hemp?" a merchant called, his voice bright, practiced. "Strong rope—good for anchoring ships, hauling cargo, lasting years."
I turned toward him, amused despite myself. His stall was neat to the point of obsession: coils of rope hung like disciplined soldiers, each the same thickness, each bearing the same careful twist.
"Uncle," I replied lightly, "I own no ship, and thus have no need to keep one from drifting away."
He laughed, unfazed, and leaned closer as though sharing a secret. "Ah, but rope is not only for ships. From Draken, this hemp—oiled, cured, and braided by hand. Good for lifting beams, binding crates, even reinforcing bridges." He lifted a coil and pressed it forward, confident in its virtue.
Heiwa had fallen quiet beside me, her attention drifting past the merchant toward the distant masts at the port. The breeze teased her hair, carrying the scent of salt and tar. Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but in thought.
"Draken?" I murmured, letting the word roll around my mouth. It tasted foreign—heavy with implication. I declined the rope with a polite bow and tugged gently at Heiwa's sleeve. "You can look that way after we've purchased the bread, butter, and the other goods Miss Li Hua asked for," I said.
"Hm," she answered absently, her gaze still fixed seaward.
"Potatoes! Fresh potatoes, brought from overseas!" another merchant called as we passed. He held one aloft like a trophy—round, dusty, unremarkable, yet somehow miraculous.
I slowed, startled by how normal it all sounded. Overseas goods. Loud bargaining. Casual abundance.
Only months ago, this same street had whispered instead of shouted. People had counted coins twice before daring to speak. Hunger had been a constant, quiet companion, sitting beside every household like an unwanted guest.
Now, the sun poured itself generously over the rooftops, and scarcity retreated into memory.
We gathered the necessities with care: rice measured scoop by scoop, fish wrapped in clean paper, vegetables still damp with morning dew. Salt came cheaper than I expected, and even meat—real meat—was available without hushed negotiations or guilty glances. I felt something loosen in my chest at that.
By the time we reached the port, our baskets were full and our arms aching.
The harbor was alive in a way I had nearly forgotten. Ships crowded the water, their hulls dark and scarred, flying unfamiliar flags that snapped sharply in the wind. Dockworkers shouted to one another in accents that bent the language in curious ways. Coal was being unloaded in black, powdery heaps; crates of metal parts followed—gears, rails, bolts wrapped in oilcloth.
"I heard they're not only repairing the railway," a man behind us said to his companion. I slowed, pretending to adjust my grip so I could listen. "They plan to extend it—connect the interior directly to the port."
His words struck like a dropped cup.
Extend it?
The railway had once been a promise, half-kept and half-forgotten. War had torn it apart like so much else. To rebuild was one thing. To expand—to believe in a future that stretched beyond survival—was another.
The sound of waves slapped rhythmically against the docks, steady and patient. Workers disembarked alongside livestock: goats bleating in confusion, crates of chickens clucking indignantly, and—
"Horses?" I blurted before I could stop myself.
Sure enough, a line of sturdy horses was being led down the gangplank, their coats glossy despite the long journey. They stamped and snorted, clearly unimpressed by the port but alive, strong, undeniable. The sound of their hooves against the wood as soldiers made way for them was a sight to behold.
Heiwa finally stirred. "That will change transport inland," she said quietly. "Faster movement. More trade. More eyes on the province."
Her tone was neutral, but I heard the question beneath it. More eyes meant opportunity—and scrutiny.
Soldiers stood watch along the docks, uniforms neat, rifles polished. Not threatening, but present. Order wrapped in discipline. Whatever aid this was, it was not careless generosity.
This will help with recovery, I thought—though a skeptical part of me whispered that help always came with strings, whether silk or iron.
Still, watching the city receive what it needed—coal for warmth, metal for rebuilding, food for bellies—I found it difficult to cling to cynicism alone.
We turned back toward the shrine before the sun could rise too high. Miss Li Hua would already be preparing breakfast with her colleague, and I refused to be the reason it grew cold. As we walked, the market swelled further, voices rising and falling like a living tide. Merchants pleaded their cases with theatrical despair; buyers countered with exaggerated disbelief. Coins clinked. Laughter slipped through the air.
Clouds drifted lazily across the sky, veiling the sun just enough to cool the skin. The breeze followed us, gentle but insistent, as though urging the city—and all of us with it—forward.
For the first time since the war's end, that forward motion felt real.