By the time we reached the foot of the hill, night had claimed the land. The moon hung pale and distant, neither warm nor cold—simply present, a witness rather than a guide.
"Thank you very much," Heiwa and I said together as we parted from the coachman.
The shrine greeted us in lantern light, soft amber halos suspended against the dark like held breaths. Shadows gathered beneath the eaves, stretching and overlapping until the familiar structure felt subtly altered—half memory, half something else.
"Welcome back, girls."
Miss Li Hua sat where the lantern light thinned, her form settled comfortably in shadow. It was impossible to tell whether she had been waiting—or had simply always been there.
"You should both take a bath," she added, rising with unhurried grace, as though the suggestion carried weight beyond courtesy.
I glanced at Heiwa, confused, only to find her studying her sleeves and hem with quiet concentration.
"I think… there might be something going around," I blurted, lifting my dress slightly, noticing dust and faint stains I hadn't registered before.
"Hm?" Miss Li Hua tilted her head, inviting explanation without pressing.
"There was a sick mother," I continued. The night breeze slipped between my words, stealing some of my resolve. "We came across her child on the way to the Marquis' residence."
Heiwa cleared her throat and stepped in, steadier than I felt.
"The living conditions were poor. I can't say it's an outbreak," she said carefully, "but it raises concerns."
Silence followed—not heavy, but deliberate.
"I see," Miss Li Hua said at last.
She looked to the moon, its pale light caught faintly in her eyes.
"I'll have a doctor examine the patient first. Then we'll decide our course."
She exhaled softly, unfolding her fan.
"All the more reason for you both to bathe. Thoroughly."
Later, after steam and water had stripped the day from my skin, the shrine settled into its deeper quiet—the kind that felt earned.
"Are you awake?"
Heiwa's voice came with a gentle knock.
I shifted and slid the door open. Her hair was tied into a loose, uneven bun, stray strands escaping freely. Without ceremony, wrapped in plain nightwear, she looked smaller somehow. Younger.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm awake."
She stepped in and closed the door. Moonlight spilled across the room. She sat on the floor for a moment before leaning against my futon, tired but restless.
"Miss Li Hua said the army unit is a day or two away," she said softly.
I nodded, though she wasn't looking at me.
"Do you think…" Her voice roughened, just slightly. "They'll be alright?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But we can check when the sun's out. We'll see for ourselves."
I reached for her hand—part reassurance, part anchoring myself. She didn't pull away.
Outside, crickets stitched the silence together, steady and indifferent.
"Can I sleep here tonight?" she asked, already shifting closer, the question half-ceremony, half-afterthought.
I let out a quiet laugh.
"For the sake of courtesy," I said, turning to make room.
She settled behind me—careful at first, then still.
The night existed in contrast: light and shadow, worry and calm, presence and uncertainty. Not peaceful. Not troubled.
But real.
And for now, that was enough.