It wasn't long before Miss Li Hua woke, her movements slow and distant, as though surfacing from a lake she had no intention of leaving. Breakfast sat before her, steam rising gently, but she regarded it with the mild suspicion of someone still half elsewhere. When we greeted her, she answered with little more than a hum, the sound tucked away like an afterthought.
Mnemon said nothing. He stood behind her, fingers moving through her hair with careful reverence—combing, separating, braiding. The patience felt practiced. Ritualized. Miss Li Hua neither resisted nor acknowledged it.
Victoria sat nearby, still squeezing the little ball she carried everywhere now. Her gaze was unfocused, mouth set thin. If she had thoughts, they stayed sealed behind her eyes.
Once breakfast was finished—if it could be called that—Miss Li Hua seemed to wake fully. She rose with purpose, accepted the satchel Mnemon handed her, and slipped it over her shoulder. The weight didn't trouble her. She adjusted the strap once, then nodded.
"We should begin," she said. "Before the sun decides to become unbearable."
No one argued.
We set off in silence. Not an uncomfortable quiet—just a layered one. Each of us carried our own private weight. Some watched the path. Others looked up into the canopy, where branches braided so tightly the sky broke into fragments. And sometimes it felt as though what we'd lost wasn't time or energy, but direction—some invisible sense of why still lagging behind us.
Miss Li Hua led without hesitation. No map. No visible markers. She walked forward, altering course only when roots, fallen trees, or thick undergrowth demanded it. The forest bent around her like it understood.
Late morning came and went. The sun climbed, pressing its presence down through the leaves, light and heat filtering unevenly.
"We just have to walk in a sort of straight line," Miss Li Hua said at last, her pace slowing slightly.
It sounded less like reassurance than confirmation—to herself as much as to us.
By noon, the strain showed.
Miss Li Hua lagged, steps shorter now, breathing uneven. Victoria fared no better, stopping often, one hand pressed to her side as if holding herself together by force alone. I watched them with growing confusion. By my reckoning, neither should have been struggling like this.
You threw a spear of light through a man, I thought, glancing back as Miss Li Hua leaned against a tree, palm flat against its bark. And this is what slows you down?
The forest breathed around us—birds calling, leaves shifting, something small skittering through the undergrowth. The air smelled green and damp and warm, clinging to the skin.
"It's so hot," Victoria complained, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Dehydration," Miss Li Hua added dryly, pulling a towel from her satchel. "A rather embarrassing way to collapse."
I looked up at the towering trees. Their height cast wide shadows. Shade outweighed sun. It didn't feel nearly as oppressive as they made it sound.
"Damn it," Miss Li Hua muttered, frustration edging her voice as she leaned against another trunk. "Isn't there an easier way to do—things?"
Victoria gave up entirely, lowering herself to the forest floor with a dramatic sigh. "I second that. Wholeheartedly."
I stopped.
Turned back. One slumped against a tree, the other sprawled in defeat. Above them, tangled branches framed slivers of sky like watchful eyes.
"You said we had to be quick," I murmured.
The thought sat uncomfortably as I studied them. I wasn't sure what I'd expected—what I believed they were capable of—but reality seemed intent on correcting me.
"But it seemed my expectations were—"
"Hey," Victoria snapped, accepting a cup of water and shooting me a glare. "You do not get to judge me."
"I wasn't—"
"We should not—" Miss Li Hua began.
The sound cut through the forest like a blade.
A roar—deep, sudden, close.
In a heartbeat, the air changed. The forest pulled back, holding its breath.
A black bear emerged from the undergrowth.
"Ah," Miss Li Hua said calmly, still seated. "A black bear."
I dropped into a crouch instinctively, muscles coiling. No one else moved. No panic. The bear huffed, sniffed the air, regarded us with heavy-lidded indifference—then turned and lumbered away.
Miss Li Hua stood, brushing leaves from her clothes as if nothing had happened. "Aside from that," she added, "there are leopards and tigers in this region as well."
That earned her a look.
We continued on, vigilance sharpened. I spotted a deer not long after—tense, ears flicking, gone the moment it noticed us.
"Maybe we should rest," I suggested eventually. "Have lunch."
When I turned back, the words died.
Miss Li Hua and Victoria were no longer on the ground.
They reclined on something pale and shifting, hovering just above the forest floor. Miss Li Hua was already asleep, breathing slow and even.
"What," I said flatly, "are those?"
"Clouds," Victoria replied, eyes half-lidded, gesturing lazily at the shapes beneath them. They looked soft, light, like mist caught in sunlight—but as they pulsed and shifted, I realized they carried a subtle weight, bending around their forms without breaking, vibrating faintly as though the forest itself whispered through them.
I sighed—long, deep—and turned away to reorient myself.
Night fell quietly.
It wasn't until the moon rose—silver and full—that I noticed the change. Ahead of us, framed in its glow, stood something unmistakably wrong for the forest.
A structure.
A house.
Man-made. Solid. Real.
We approached in silence, clothes heavy with dirt and sweat, skin marked by branches and leaves. The night breeze brushed cool fingers across my face, carrying the faint promise of rest—or something else.
Either way, the forest had led us here.
And forests rarely do anything without reason.
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