Light squeezed in through the gap in the curtains, cutting a bright line across the bedsheet.
Flora blinked, her awareness slowly returning. She realized she was still lying on her side, her posture hardly changed—but the arm that had been wrapped around her waist was already gone. She turned her head.
Ilya lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. Sensing Flora’s movement, she turned her face slightly.
Their eyes met.
The same—calm, faint. Flora froze for a moment. What had happened last night replayed in her mind.
“You’re awake?” Ilya said, her voice as usual. Those words, that embrace, that soft “don’t go”—it all felt like a dream.
And yet, the warmth lingering at her waist proved that what happened in the middle of the night had been real.
“Mm.” Flora responded, then cautiously asked, “Mother, did you sleep well last night?”
Ilya fell silent for a second.
“It was fine,” she replied briefly.
Flora looked at her. Ilya’s expression had already returned to its usual calm, as if nothing had happened—perhaps she truly didn’t know exactly what had occurred.
But Flora noticed that her gaze shifted away a little too quickly. Maybe it was because she had woken up to find herself holding Flora.
“Get up,” Ilya said as she sat up, the blanket slipping off her shoulders. “Aren’t you going to your sister’s house today?”
Flora sat up as well, her hair falling messily around her.
“Mm.”
She watched Ilya get out of bed, walk to the window, and pull the curtains open. Sunlight flooded in all at once, making her squint.
Ilya stood in the light, her back straight, overlapping with the figure from last night standing under the moonlight.
“Mother.”
Ilya turned back. Flora suddenly wanted to say something, but didn’t know what.
“…It’s nothing.” She scratched her head. “I just called you.”
Ilya glanced at her, said nothing, and turned back to continue adjusting her clothes.
But Flora thought she saw the corner of her lips move slightly.
“Mother, is there anything you need to do?”
“What would I need to do? I’m just accompanying you. Whatever you plan to do, I’ll follow.”
“Alright. Then let’s have breakfast first, and head to Eileen’s place a bit later. It’s not good to go too early. What would you like to eat this morning?”
“Nothing in particular. Anything simple is fine, same as usual.”
“Then we’ll just eat downstairs.”
They washed up quickly, tidied themselves, and pushed the door open.
The corridor was quiet, filled only with the soft tapping of their footsteps on the stone floor.
Breakfast was simple—hot milk, dark bread, and a small dish of butter. Very ordinary, very “small-town.” They sat at a corner table, eating in silence.
When the landlady came to refill their water, she gave them an extra glance. Flora knew why—what happened last night had surely already spread.
“Two outsiders taking down a group of troublemakers”—news like that traveled faster than anything in a small town.
But she didn’t mind. She simply ate her breakfast calmly.
After returning upstairs, Flora changed clothes and combed her hair again.
She looked into the mirror a couple of times to make sure everything was in order, checked that her disguise was intact, and then left with Ilya.
This time, Flora seemed to walk down the stairs a little faster than before.
The road was too familiar—so familiar that she could walk it with her eyes closed and still know what came next: a short tree on the left she used to climb to steal bird nests as a child; a smooth stone block on the right where she would sit on summer evenings waiting for Father to return from work.
Flora walked slowly, taking everything in. This road was too familiar. The address Eileen gave was in the southern part of town, where fewer people lived. Everything was still here—just… older.
Ilya walked beside her without saying a word. Occasionally, she followed Flora’s gaze, then looked away again, asking nothing.
***
After turning the final corner, the house came into view.
Gray-white stone walls, a low wooden fence, and a small vegetable patch in the yard. It looked exactly as it did in her memory—except the vines on the wall had grown thicker, and some of the wooden fence had been replaced.
The new planks were lighter in color, looking cleaner, almost too fresh compared to the old ones.
Flora stood outside the fence, unmoving.
She saw Eileen.
Eileen was crouched by the vegetable patch with her back to them, watering something. She wore a faded coarse dress, her hair loosely tied, exposing a small patch of fair skin at the back of her neck.
This figure—Flora had seen it countless times.
One summer evening in childhood, Eileen crouched in the yard watching ants move their nest, looking just like this. The day Father left, Eileen had also crouched like this, unmoving.
And now, once again, Flora stood behind her, watching.
Only this time, Eileen didn’t know.
“Hello, we’ve arrived,” Flora said. Her voice was steadier than she expected.
Eileen turned around, and her eyes lit up the moment she saw her. She stood quickly, wiped her hands on her skirt, and hurried over to open the gate.
“Miss Flora! You really came! I thought…”
She stopped halfway, seeming to realize the rest wasn’t appropriate. Her face reddened slightly. “I mean, please come in, please come in.”
Flora’s gaze swept across the yard, pausing briefly on a few flowers before she stepped inside. Ilya followed behind her.
Noticing this, Eileen said a bit shyly, “That must be your Lady, right? Please have a seat as well, I’ll go make some tea. The flowers in the yard are just things I planted casually…”
Flora and Ilya walked into the house and sat on the sofa in the living room.
The texture was just as familiar—not particularly soft, but solid and reassuring.
Warm sunlight fell over Flora. She could smell the earth and grass from the yard. She looked at the wooden door—there was still a faint carved mark on the frame.
It was from when she was ten, measuring her height. Back then, Eileen had held the doorframe steady while watching her carve it.
Everything felt so familiar, yet everything was different. Time had changed it all.
“This house has some years on it,” Ilya’s voice sounded beside her.
Flora withdrew her gaze. “Mm.”
“She lives here alone?”
“I don’t know, but… probably.”
Just as she finished speaking, Eileen came out carrying tea. Two coarse ceramic cups sat on the tray, steam rising from them. She carefully placed them on the small wooden table and wiped her hands on her apron.
“It’s wild tea picked from the mountain. I’m not sure if it suits your taste. There’s nothing good at home, only this…”
Flora picked up the cup and took a sip.
She was used to it—far too used to it. This was the taste she had grown up with—light bitterness, with a hint of wild, earthy sharpness.
“It’s good,” she said.
“It’s decent,” Ilya added after a sip, giving a fair evaluation by most standards. “Fresh and elegant. Being wild tea, it lacks some depth, but it goes down smoothly.”
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