Morning came quietly.
"Lian."
Her mother's voice stopped her hand at the window.
"You don't need to open it any wider," Madam Xiu said. "The air is already cool."
Lay coughed behind her a shallow, stubborn sound that never quite left his chest. He'd been born first by minutes, but weaker, his lungs thin from the start. The village healer had once said he'd grow stronger with time.
Time had proven otherwise.
"He was coughing," Lian said.
"He always coughs," Madam Xiu replied, not unkindly. "You don't have to greet the morning for him."
Lian slid the window open anyway. Cool air spilled in, carrying the scent of damp earth and jasmine from the garden. She waited, counting Lay's breaths the way she'd learned to do as a child, slow. She'd been doing it longer than she could remember.
Lay sighed. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" she asked.
"Watching me breathe like it might betray us."
"It sounded tight."
"It always sounds tight," he said, eyes still closed. "You don't need to guard it."
Madam Xiu crossed the room and gently took the blanket from Lian's hands, tucking it around Lay herself. Her movements were careful, practiced the same way she'd learned to move after too many long nights listening for her son's breath.
"You're not his shadow," she said. "Sit."
Lian obeyed, though every part of her resisted it.
Lay pushed himself, irritation flaring. "She treats me like I'll shatter if I move wrong."
"You don't shatter," Lian said. "You crack. There's a difference."
"That's not better."
She almost smiled.
Madam Xiu poured tea and pressed the cup into Lian's hands. "You wake before the sun. You sleep after the house goes quiet. You move like if you stop, something terrible will happen."
Lian stared into the tea. She had learned early that if she stayed alert if she listened hard enough, watched closely enough she could catch disaster before it took hold. It had become habit. Then instinct. Then part of her.
"Something might," she said.
Lay looked at her then. Their faces were the same, close enough that strangers often mistook them for reflections, but where his carried exhaustion, hers carried restraint.
"You don't have to do everything for me," he said.
"I'm not doing everything."
"You open my window. Count my medicine. Remind me to eat." His voice sharpened. "You don't even let me forget."
"Because when you forget," she said, "you pay for it."
Silence settled.
Lay exhaled slowly. "I don't want to be the reason you never leave."
Madam Xiu's hands stilled.
"You wanted to train," Lay continued. "Before I got worse. The mountain schools. Crane's Wing, the full form."
The words landed softly and deeply. Lian had spoken of it once, years ago, when her body had grown strong faster than her brother's, when the river had felt like an open road instead of a boundary. She'd never mentioned it again after the winter Lay nearly stopped breathing.
"That was a long time ago," she said.
"I see it," he said. "When you practice by the river. You move like you're meant to go somewhere."
She reached across the table and nudged his bowl closer. "Eat."
"That's not an answer."
"You'll argue better with food in you."
Despite himself, he huffed a laugh. "You're impossible."
"And you're breathing," she replied. "So we're even."
Their Father Chen Guang's footsteps faded down the path, the sound of them swallowed by the river wind. For a moment, no one spoke.
Madam Xiu moved first.
She gathered the bowls, rinsed them carefully, as if the porcelain might bruise. Outside, the air carried that sharp January bite the kind that slipped through seams and settled into bones. New Year was close. Too close, she thought, glancing toward the window.
"Eat a little more," she told Lay, spooning extra porridge into his bowl before he could object. "You're too thin this winter."
"I always am," he said.
"And I'm always telling you," she replied, firm but gentle. "New Year comes, and you greet it with strength, not coughing."
Lian watched her mother move through the room. Madam Xiu's hair was tied back neatly, though a few strands had escaped, silver catching the light. Her hands never stopped adjusting the fire, folding cloth, straightening what didn't need to be straightened.
"I'll go to the market later," Madam Xiu said. "If there's dried fish left, I'll get some. Prices will rise once the festival starts."
"I can go," Lian offered at once.
"No," her mother said. "You have enough to do. The house, your grandfather, your brother."
Lay shot her a look. "See? Even Mother thinks you're doing too much."
Madam Xiu turned on him. "And you think too little of what she carries."
Lay quieted.
Madam Xiu softened. "It's been a hard winter. But New Year is meant for clean starts." She reached out and brushed a bit of ash from Lian's sleeve. "We'll hang fresh paper charms. Sweep the floors. Light incense for the ancestors."
She paused, then added, quieter, "Your father says the river may freeze again before month's end. If it does, work will be scarce."
Lian nodded. "I'll stretch the rice."
Madam Xiu looked at her sharply. "You shouldn't have to think like that."
"But I do," Lian said.
Lay stared into his bowl. "Do you think the world will change this year?"
Madam Xiu hesitated. Mothers always did before answering questions like that.
"The world is always changing," she said finally. "We just don't always feel it at once."
Outside, a cold breeze rattled the plum tree branches. No blossoms yet too early. January was still a waiting month.
"I'll help Grandfather after breakfast," Lian said. "He wanted the papers sorted by year. He says it helps him remember where he was when things happened."
Madam Xiu smiled faintly. "Your grandfather remembers more than he lets on."
Lay frowned. "He keeps asking about the eastern provinces."
Madam Xiu's hands stilled for just a breath. "Old men worry."
"So do young ones," Lay muttered.
She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "And they're allowed to."