Snow came down in slow, patient flakes, each one tapping the roof like a fingertip. The hut leaked in two places. She had stuffed cloth in the worst hole and stretched a strip of oil cloth over the other. It still dripped, steady as a metronome.
Xueyin sat cross-legged by the brazier and unwrapped the guqin. The lacquer was crazed with hairline cracks; the bridge had a chip the size of a grain of rice. Silk strings, not metal. They looked like river light when the fire caught them.
She laid her palms on the wood. It felt cold enough to bite. "We'll manage," she told it, and softer, "We have to."
Breath in; the world brightened. Breath out; the world steadied. She tried the pattern she'd taught herself: count nine before she touched a string. On the ninth, she plucked.
The note came out thin and clean, then wobbled and fell apart. The hut threw it back as a faint, wrong echo. Her fingertips stung; a pinprick of blood welled under the nail.
"Too hard," she said. "Shorter. Narrower."
She shifted her hand, changed the angle, tried again. This time she kept it small, a line of sound no more than one pace wide. The air didn't fight as much. The roof kept dripping—tap, tap, tap. She matched it. The room settled.
When the brazier sputtered low, she wrapped the instrument and pulled on her boots. The night outside was blue. Bare branches whispered. Far off, a bell thudded once and stopped—someone testing, then thinking better of it.
Down the road, a caravan had drawn up at an old shrine: six wagons, canvas roofs bowed with snow, lanterns behind oiled paper. Drivers hunched by their wheels. A musician sat apart with a battered lute and a scarf high on his nose.
"Evening," she said. "I'll play for broth."
"Risky trade," he answered through the scarf, eyes creasing. "But cheap for me. Sit."
Someone handed her a chipped bowl that smelled of bones and winter herbs. She set the guqin across her knees.
"Silk strings," the musician said. "Good. Metal's too loud for small rooms."
"It's loud enough for this one," she said. "My roof complains."
He chuckled. "Play it a little and the roof might learn manners."
She breathed, counted to nine, and gave them a lullaby she used on tired children in village squares. Simple, soft. At first the cold made the strings stubborn; then the tone warmed, and the snow seemed to fall with it.
When she finished, mittened hands clapped once or twice. The broth had cooled enough to drink. She swallowed the last mouthful like it was rare.
The musician turned the scarf down. He was older than she'd thought, with gray in his beard and a scar that tugged one corner of his mouth. He rapped his knuckles on his instrument, then pulled a thin, cracked scroll from his coat, tied with twine.
"You've got the thing breath should ride," he said, passing her the scroll. "But just now the breath rides you."
"I can't pay," she said.
"You already paid." He nodded at the guqin. "A song that settles people is worth more than coin on a winter road."
Xueyin accepted the scroll with both hands. The twine rasped her split skin. She unrolled cramped notes and plain words. Title: Breath-to-Note Primer.
Under the title, one line stood alone:
Breath sets the note. The note sets the world.
"Say it back," the musician said.
"Breath sets the note, the note sets the world."
He nodded. "You don't need the whole thing at once. Three rules. One: keep the sound no more than one pace wide if there's a crowd. Two: in storms and stone rooms, strike—don't sing. Three: count nine, then act."
"What's a lane?" she asked.
"A lane is a line of sound, no more than one pace wide, aimed at wood—small on purpose."
"And one more rule, unprinted," he added. "If you move, step on the second beat. Feet and hands should be friends."
"Step on the second beat?"
"You'll feel why. Or you won't—and you'll fall on your face where people can see it." His eyes softened. "You're young."
"Old enough to be turned away from a gate," she said, more bitter than she meant. "They called it mercy. 'Go home.'"
"They did you a favor," he said. "Gates are mouths. They close. Roads stay open."
"Roads also freeze."
"True." He stamped his boots. "But they take you past the place that hurt. And sometimes toward a place that suits."
A driver brought a small coil of fine silk thread. "From a weaver's widow," he said. "For the girl with the quiet song."
"Thank you," Xueyin managed. The word came out rough.
The musician tapped the scroll. "There's a breath drill. Not magic—habit. Do it until your ribs complain less."
"Will it make me strong?"
"It will make you steady." He tilted his head. "Strong is a word people use when they want to stop thinking. Steady keeps children behind you alive."
She offered them three notes and a breath, three notes and a breath. By the end, her fingers ached. A faint ring set up in her right ear and wouldn't quit.
"Cost?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Ring in the ear. Split skin."
"Good," he said. "Not that you're hurt—good that you can say it. Name the cost or you can't balance it."
She tucked the scroll inside her coat. The parchment felt heavier than it looked.
"What do they call you?" a driver asked.
"Xueyin."
"Where are you going?"
"Forward," she said, because anything else would be a lie.
They broke camp before dawn. Wheels creaked. The shrine's small bell sounded once, respectful. She walked ahead of the lead wagon to let the cold bite the tiredness from her legs.
"Remember," the musician called, "keep it no more than one pace wide in towns. Roads watch the angle of a note like the edge of a blade."
She signed thanks and drifted toward the ditch when they turned for the prefecture road. When the wagons vanished, she unrolled the scroll again with numb fingers.
Breath sets the note. The note sets the world.
She read it three times, then counted to nine. On the ninth she let a thin thread of sound run along her throat—enough to keep her company, not enough to shake snow from the branches. The ring in her ear rose, then eased. The ache in her fingers steadied.
She wrapped the guqin under the oil cloth and started walking.
By noon she would try a square. By night she would sleep by a thin fire, counting nine. By morning someone would shout, steel would flash, and she would remember the rules and keep the sound no more than one pace wide.
For now there was the breath, the rule, and the weight of wood. She walked, and the snow did not stop, and the world—just a little—kept time.
She set off with a split fingertip and a faint ring in her right ear, small prices the snow counted with her.