The breeze moved through the bare trees with a sound like dry paper brushing against itself.
Snow had settled thickly along the riverbank during the night. Another layer had arrived after dawn, softening the edges of stones, burying old footprints, and turning the world into something quieter than it had any right to be.
I sat near the frozen river with my legs crossed beneath me.
Cold pressed through the fabric of my clothing.
The river stretched before me like a sheet of cloudy glass. Beneath it, water still moved somewhere in the darkness.
Slow.
Patient.
Alive.
"Water is a structure and a state," I repeated softly.
My breath drifted into the winter air.
"It is an arrangement with form."
I closed my eyes.
"Therefore understanding water means understanding shape."
The words sounded less certain every time I said them.
Mr. David insisted I stop trying to memorize explanations and simply experience what I was attempting to learn.
Unfortunately, that advice had only created new problems.
Experiencing water was significantly harder than reading about it.
I circulated my qi slowly.
The energy moved through my body in familiar pathways, flowing along channels that had become second nature over the years.
In.
Out.
Compress.
Refine.
Repeat.
The process should have been calming.
Instead, my thoughts wandered.
The ice beneath the snow creaked faintly.
I listened.
Not with my ears alone.
With my body.
With my qi.
Trying to feel the river beneath the frozen shell.
Trying to understand what Mr. David meant.
Water changed.
Water adapted.
Water yielded.
Yet it never stopped being itself.
A bead of sweat rolled down my neck despite the cold.
I flinched.
Winter should not allow sweating.
Yet cultivation rarely cared about common sense.
I continued compressing my qi core.
The pressure built gradually. A familiar ache settled behind my eyes, and the weight of fatigue followed shortly after.
I exhaled.
Weak winter sunlight reached my face.
The sort that illuminated the world without truly warming it.
For a moment, I simply sat there and let it touch my skin.
Sleep tugged gently at the edge of my awareness.
My thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To fruit.
Ridiculous fruit.
I still remembered staring at the grapes and pineapple in disbelief.
They had looked completely ordinary.
No glow.
No divine aura.
No heavenly radiance.
Just fruit.
Then Mr. David had casually informed me that they required more than two hundred and fifty years to grow.
I had nearly choked.
The memory brought a small smile.
I could still hear his laughter.
"It is interesting how getting to know something changes your view of it."
The thought slipped out before I realized I had spoken.
I sounded philosophical.
Which was dangerous.
The moment I noticed it, the effect vanished.
My smile widened slightly.
Then another face appeared in my mind.
Victoria.
The smile remained.
"She's going to be so excited."
I looked toward the frozen river.
The new year wasn't far away.
Neither was the tournament.
Mr. David had finally agreed to let me participate.
The thought alone filled me with anticipation.
Victoria had wanted to attend one.
I could already imagine her reaction.
Questions.
Endless questions.
Probably demands for explanations.
Possibly requests to touch everything.
The image felt so vivid that I almost expected a letter to arrive demanding details before I could tell her.
"A fair point."
I remembered her writing that in response to one of my letters.
Even after our argument.
Even after everything.
The audacity of the woman to remain upset and still write back.
It had somehow given me the courage to write again.
And again.
And again.
The memory warmed me more than the sunlight.
"Okay."
I pulled my clothing tighter.
"It is still winter. Where could he be?"
Mr. David had decided I should learn through observation.
Which mostly meant disappearing whenever I wanted answers.
I sighed.
"Why agree to teach me if you're just going to tell me to figure it out myself?"
The river offered no response.
Not that I expected one.
"Miss Heiwa."
I startled.
My eyes snapped open.
Mr. David stood nearby.
I hadn't heard him approach.
Hadn't sensed him either.
Which was embarrassing.
Very embarrassing.
I offered an awkward smile.
He merely looked amused.
"Let's head back."
He brushed snow from his sleeve.
"There's a letter from Mumei-shi."
I blinked.
Then immediately stood.
"Mumei-shi?"
Not Victoria.
A strange disappointment surfaced before I could stop it.
I hurried after him through the snow.
The carriage waited nearby. The horses stamped their hooves impatiently.
"Can I see it now?"
Mr. David climbed into the carriage.
"Let's wait a little."
I sighed but followed.
The door shut behind us.
The carriage lurched forward.
Snow crunched beneath the wheels.
The journey passed mostly in silence.
Outside, white fields stretched endlessly. Bare branches scratched against the pale sky.
Inside, only the occasional creak of wood disturbed the quiet.
I watched the landscape pass.
Watched.
Waited.
Wondered.
Eventually the estate appeared.
Large gates.
Snow-covered gardens.
Warm light shining through distant windows.
The familiar sight should have been comforting.
Instead, impatience settled in my chest.
After changing clothes, I found myself seated overlooking the winter garden.
A maid arrived carrying tea.
Steam curled from the cups.
The scent drifted between us.
"Can I see the letter now?"
Mr. David set down his cup.
Without hurry, he reached into his suit.
An envelope appeared.
He handed it over.
Still sealed.
My fingers moved immediately.
The paper tore.
I unfolded the letter.
My eyes searched for the important part.
Skipping greetings.
Skipping formalities.
Skipping everything.
Then I found it.
The world stopped.
Not dramatically.
Not suddenly.
Just enough.
Enough for something inside me to miss a step.
I read the sentence again.
And again.
And again.
The words remained unchanged.
Victoria was killed.
No.
I read it again.
Victoria was killed.
My chest tightened.
The room seemed smaller.
The air thicker.
"I don't understand."
My voice sounded distant.
"What does this mean?"
Mr. David said something.
I didn't hear it.
The words on the page continued staring back at me.
Victoria was killed.
Killed.
Killed.
Killed.
That can't be right.
"Miss Liúlóng."
His voice reached me eventually.
"Calm yourself."
"There must be a mistake."
My throat had become painfully dry.
"There has to be."
Or maybe they had the wrong person.
Maybe the report was wrong.
Maybe—
Silence.
The lack of denial hurt more than confirmation.
"Who?"
The word barely emerged.
"Who did it?"
Mr. David closed his eyes briefly.
"A girl involved with the brothel Victoria had an incident with."
The explanation continued.
Something about kidnapping.
Something about arrests.
Something about reports.
I heard almost none of it.
The words arrived.
Then vanished.
Meaning refused to stay.
I had only just rebuilt that bridge.
Only just.
The distance.
The awkwardness.
The silence.
The regret.
We had finally crossed it.
And now—
Gone.
"The lady needs rest."
Someone said it.
Maybe Mr. David.
Maybe a servant.
Maybe neither.
I no longer cared.
The days afterward lost their shape.
Morning arrived.
Then disappeared.
Night followed.
Then vanished too.
The sun rose.
The sun set.
Neither event felt particularly meaningful.
I spent most of my time in bed.
Not sleeping.
Not reading.
Not cultivating.
Simply existing.
Or trying to.
Food arrived.
Food left.
Untouched.
Sometimes I stared at the ceiling.
Sometimes at the curtains.
Sometimes at nothing.
The Concord confirmed everything.
Every detail.
Every report.
Every witness statement.
Every hope I had been clinging to.
Gone.
"She was stabbed multiple times."
Min's voice echoed in my memory.
Hoarse.
Broken.
I could still hear crying in the background.
Amihan had been crying.
Amihan.
The composed one.
The reliable one.
Even she had broken.
That felt wrong.
I rolled over.
The pillow was damp again.
At some point I forced myself upright.
Water.
I needed water.
My legs felt heavy.
The room felt unfamiliar.
I crossed toward the mirror.
Then stopped.
My reflection stared back.
Red eyes.
Messy hair.
A face I barely recognized.
"How immoral."
The thought arrived without warning.
A memory followed.
A future that would never happen.
A surprise visit.
A tournament.
Letters.
Conversations.
Possibilities.
I collapsed.
The floor met my knees.
The sob that escaped hurt.
Then another followed.
And another.
"Xiǎo jiāhuo"
The door opened.
I looked up.
"Father?"
Disbelief cracked through the grief.
For a moment, I thought I was imagining him.
Then he crossed the room.
Said nothing.
Simply knelt.
Wrapped his arms around me.
And everything shattered.
I buried my face against him.
The sobs returned immediately.
Stronger.
Harder.
More painful.
"I am sorry, dear."
His hand stroked my hair.
Slowly.
Steadily.
The way he always had.
Even after telling him stories about Victoria.
Even after reading her letters aloud.
Even after all that—
He had never met her.
Never once.
The realization hurt.
She had become real to him through my stories alone.
And now she was gone before they could meet.
"I heard from your brother."
His voice remained gentle.
"Her burial will be soon."
My hands tightened around his clothing.
"I don't want to..."
The words refused to finish.
I had attended my mother's burial.
But I had been too young.
Too young to understand permanence.
Too young to understand absence.
Now I understood.
And for the first time, I thought I understood Father too.
Not completely.
Maybe that was impossible.
But enough.
Enough to glimpse the shape of it.
That realization made me hold him tighter.
"I will never hear her voice again."
The thought struck with fresh cruelty.
No letters.
No arguments.
No awkward conversations.
No laughter.
Nothing.
Only silence.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
The tears came anyway.
And somewhere beneath the grief, beneath the regret, beneath everything else, one thought remained.
I had been afraid to call.
Afraid to visit.
Afraid to say things directly.
So I wrote letters instead.
Always later.
Always next time.
And now there would be no next letter.
No next conversation.
No next time.
And I could not bring myself to say goodbye.