The night was heavy—or perhaps that was merely the feeling it pressed upon us, as the moon and the heavens looked down in quiet judgment. The shrine seemed smaller somehow, the air thick with incense and unanswered questions.
Who is this person? I wondered, my eyes scanning the room for anyone who looked as unsettled as I felt.
Only Heiwa shared my expression. Miss Hazel and her daughter looked surprised, yes—but not alarmed. As for Miss Li Hua, she appeared entirely unbothered by the stranger's presence, which unsettled me more than anything else.
The man had already taken a seat, adjusting the folds of his pale robes with practiced elegance.
"It is whooping cough," he said calmly, turning his gaze toward Miss Li Hua. "Though… a rather strange strain."
"Whooping cough?" Miss Hazel echoed, her teacup hovering inches from her lips.
"Yes. Apologies, I do not believe we have been properly introduced." The man turned to her, offering a thin, polite smile. "You are?"
"Hazel. And this is my daughter, Zinnia," she replied, finally taking a sip.
"Lovely names. A pleasure to make your acquaintance." He inclined his head slightly, then flinched as Dōngzhí, seated behind him, poked his side.
"Right—right. Forgive me." He cleared his throat. "My name is Mumei-shi. And… welcome back, girls."
Dōngzhí wore a complicated expression as he turned and gently patted her head, like one might reassure a nervous child. The gesture felt oddly intimate, as though they shared a history none of us were privy to.
"Now then," Miss Hazel said, folding her hands around her cup, her eyes drifting briefly to Zinnia, who was entirely absorbed in her biscuits. "I do not believe the origanum plant is the best option."
Miss Li Hua placed her cup down slowly. "And why do you assume that?"
"I am not saying it would not work," Miss Hazel clarified, clearing her throat. "But rather, I think it would be unnecessary to alter the original medicine. If we introduce a complementary tea—something taken alongside the already administered treatment—we could strengthen the effect without changing its composition."
"I see," Miss Li Hua murmured. "And do you have the means to prepare such a tea?"
Miss Hazel gave a faint, knowing smile. "You saw me leave my home with nothing but my daughter and a basket. So yes—within reason. But I will need a few things."
Zinnia looked up at her mother, crumbs on her lips, fireflies drifting lazily around her head like tiny living lanterns.
That night ended with a late dinner and a sleep so deep it felt earned.
Heiwa joined me in the room assigned to us, carrying one of the spare lanterns.
"Did you notice the salt placed in front of the doors?" she asked, slipping beneath the covers.
"I did. It's meant to ward off misfortune," I replied, repeating what one of the priestesses had once told me.
"I see…" She hesitated, then added, "Do you know the man from earlier?"
I stared up at the ceiling. "No. But I get the feeling Miss Li Hua does."
Heiwa shifted beside me. "Do you think any of this will work?"
I exhaled slowly. "We do not have the luxury of doubt. Only hope."
She gave a soft, tired laugh. "Then let's hope hope is enough."
Morning arrived with birdsong and light—but the shrine was already alive.
I gently nudged Heiwa awake. "I think we have guests."
We followed the noise into the courtyard, and then down the shrine steps, where dozens of people stood in uneven lines. Some leaned on others for support. Many coughed violently, handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths.
At the center stood a large white tent.
From it, priestesses emerged carrying small satchels and bottles. The air smelled of herbs, citrus, and boiled roots.
From that morning onward, the shrine became something else entirely.
Miss Hazel prepared thyme-infused tea, ginger water meant to be sipped throughout the day, diluted orange juice for the children, and tinctures brewed with careful precision. Zinnia helped by handing out cups, her butterflies guiding the weakest patients toward shade.
The military assisted with order. The Church provided supplies. Even Heiwa and Victoria found themselves distributing water and medicine, sleeves rolled up, faces tired but determined.
The bell rang occasionally, marking another death.
Although blessings were being handed out, the human body and the disease made even magic feel limited.
At first the chime was constant. Now it rang only a few times a day—still heavy, still final.
Over the course of a week, the city began to breathe again.
The coughing softened. The lines shortened. The streets filled once more with movement, with sound, with life.
Hope—quiet, stubborn hope—had taken root.
One morning, as we sat for breakfast beneath the shrine veranda, Heiwa finally spoke what had lingered in all our minds.
"So… about the cause of this outbreak," she said carefully, stirring her tea. "You mentioned it might have been man-made. A mage, perhaps."
Miss Li Hua paused mid-sip.
Slowly, she set her cup down.
"Well," she said, eyes lifting toward the city below, "since people are finally breathing again… I suppose it is time to discuss what truly poisoned the air."
And just like that, the peace we had earned began to feel temporary.
Because healing was only the first chapter. Understanding was always the dangerous part.