After a meal that looked like fine dining but left an unpleasant taste lingering at the back of my tongue, I found myself once again in the room I shared with Heiwa. The food had been exquisite—carefully prepared, beautifully plated, rich in spice and effort—yet it sat heavy within me, as though nourishment and satisfaction were not always the same thing.
We were packing.
It felt strange, arranging belongings when only days ago we had fled Twin Hill Province with nothing but the clothes on our backs and fear snapping at our heels. Now we owned proper garments, folded neatly into suitcases, enough to pass for respectable young ladies rather than refugees pretending at dignity.
As I placed a jacket carefully into my case, I thought of Miss Lakshmi. She is kind, I decided, though the thought came with hesitation. Or perhaps simply accustomed to generosity. There was something about her benevolence that felt… accounted for. As if favors, once given, were never entirely free.
I noticed the quiet then.
Heiwa had stopped moving. She stood by her open suitcase, a folded hanbok held in both hands, staring into nothing as though waiting for the garment to speak first—to confess its origin, its meaning, its memory.
"Heiwa," I said softly, uncertain even as the word left my mouth. "Are you… alright?"
She startled. "Huh—? I—I'm alright. Sorry." She lowered the hanbok and resumed packing, movements careful, precise, too controlled to be natural.
Something tightened in my chest.
"Heiwa," I tried again, holding a scarf between my fingers, folding and unfolding it without purpose. "I cannot say I understand how you feel. I am not… particularly skilled at this sort of thing. I do not even know how—"
"You are not meant to," she interrupted, her words tumbling over one another. "This is my fault—my problem. You do not need to concern yourself."
She did not look at me as she spoke. That, somehow, hurt more than the words themselves.
Before I could gather the courage to continue, a knock sounded at the door—sharp, polite, final.
"Are you girls ready?" Miss Halle called. "It is time to depart."
"Yes, we will be right down," Heiwa answered quickly, as though grateful for the interruption. She closed her suitcase with decisive force, as if sealing the conversation inside it.
We descended the stairs shortly after and waited near the entrance while Miss Lakshmi concluded her discussion with the innkeeper. Miss Nana stood behind the counter, hands folded, her expression warm but watchful in the way only women who had survived much could manage.
Heiwa stood several paces away from me. She said nothing. Her gaze remained fixed upon her shoes, as though the floor itself demanded her full attention.
"Thank you for everything, Miss Nana," Miss Lakshmi said with a gentle smile. After a moment of light conversation, she produced a bottle of wine and pressed it into the innkeeper's hands. "Château Margaux. I hope you find the time to enjoy it, Grandma."
She embraced the older woman warmly. It was a sweet gesture. Yet watching Miss Halle observe the exchange from the side, her expression unreadable, and seeing Heiwa's distance left behind a bitterness that clung like an aftertaste.
Soon after, we were in the carriage, bound for the port. The ride passed in silence. I attempted, more than once, to speak to Heiwa, but each attempt dissolved before reaching my lips. Some silences were not empty—they were barricades.
The port was fully awake by the time we arrived. Snow dusted the ground in deceptive beauty, turning iron and wood alike into pale, treacherous things. Dockworkers moved with purpose, breath steaming, boots crunching against frost.
I noticed Heiwa's shoulders tense as she stepped down from the carriage. She drew her coat tighter around herself.
I told myself I was not qualified to comfort her. The excuse felt thin even as I clung to it.
"Are we ready to return?" a deep, familiar voice asked.
Mr. Henrij approached, already reaching for our luggage. His presence was steady, reassuring—the kind that settles storms merely by refusing to be impressed by them, even as Heiwa's shoulders tensed.
We waited as preparations were finalized, watching the winter port in all its silent splendor—white, vast, indifferent. The airship loomed above us like a patient beast, ropes and rigging creaking softly.
"Alright," Heiwa said suddenly, her voice firmer than it had been all day. "We are loaded and ready to go." Mr. Henrij returned at last, nodding once.
The words struck me as strange. Too deliberate, as though she were convincing herself as much as anyone else.
We boarded.
As we moved along the gangway, I heard Miss Lakshmi speak behind us, her tone light, her smile thin.
"You never did post that letter."
It was then I remembered. The letter—carefully written, revised, folded, left behind on the desk. Heiwa had forgotten it… or perhaps had chosen not to remember.
Soon, the airship lifted, and the city fell away beneath us. The atmosphere inside grew denser, heavier, as though something unseen had been brought aboard alongside us.
I sat in silence, hands folded, thoughts racing uselessly.
Like one standing beside a loaded gun, I did not know whether to step back—or whether the damage had already been done.
Outside, snow fell—cold and flat, burying meaning beneath its silent frost.
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