Morning light slanted into the room, falling across the wooden table beneath the window. Chen Wuya sat there, pinching a piece of blue cloth in his hand as the needle passed back and forth between his fingers. His movements were so stiff, it was as though he were holding a sword for the first time. His fingers were rough, and his palms still bore the thin calluses left by last night's short staff, yet now they had to contend with a fine needle and a strand of thread.
The cloth had been cut from Bai Zhi's old clothes. Its edges were already uneven, and several stitches had pierced through the material, splitting it into tiny holes. He lowered his head and stared at the little garment, only half sewn, his brow faintly furrowed as if he were breaking down some intricate move. But this was not martial arts. There was no forcing a path into completion with Misaligned Force—crooked stitches were crooked stitches, with no way to make them justify themselves.
The breeze outside was gentle. The wooden plaque beneath the eaves hung quietly, no longer swaying. Everything from last night seemed to have been washed far away by the stream, leaving only drag marks in the dirt to dry slowly. He no longer thought about whether those people would return, nor did he touch the short staff standing against the wall. Today, he only wanted to finish sewing this little garment.
The door curtain lifted, and Bai Zhi came out carrying a bowl of hot porridge, which she set at the corner of the table. She glanced at the work in his hands and said nothing. She merely drew the needle gently from between his fingers, replaced it with a finer one, and handed him a length of snow-white