Uh... please don't squeeze the dried flower like that. With no water in its veins, that brittle lattice will bend like sun-baked paper.

Pengpeng skittered after Mira like a sparrow in cold wind. That shout back in the flower shop had scared her straight, and the two slipped back into their first awkward dance—silent, stiff, breath held. If not for Pengpeng’s eyes twitching at the sight of that delicate Nisa dried bloom being treated like the handle of a shopping bag, the quiet would’ve walked them all the way to the orphanage gates.

And Nisa’s dried blooms don’t keep well. Flower farmers brush on a thin dry coat over the petals; if you handle it rough, the coat can peel. She was scared of angering this noble again, but for the flower’s sake she still dared to mutter, voice like a shy river, You—you don’t want your sister to receive a bouquet already damp and wilted, right?

Mira’s steps halted for a heartbeat, her face clouding the way Pengpeng feared most—a flare of irritation like thorns bristling.

Eek! Sorry, sorry—!

Her mood was foul, a storm trapped in a glass jar. She wanted to open the Time Domain and disappear, snap back to her room, bolt the door, and spar the air all day to grind the sediment out of her chest. Of course, she couldn’t open the Time Domain now, and she couldn’t bring herself to dump that darkness on the blameless Pengpeng. But enough was enough.

She was close to breaking. Any thing, any topic, any view was a thread that tugged her back to the white-haired back she couldn’t see. So—Mira clenched her teeth and wrenched the talk off herself. She cut Pengpeng off, blunt as a knife.

You know flowers well?

S-sorry—eh?

You sound like you know dried-flower craft. Did you work in it?

The question struck out of nowhere. Pengpeng blinked, paused, then gave a small nod, like a leaf nodding to wind.

Worked... maybe that’s too strong. My family’s been flower farmers for generations. I soaked it up as a kid. She rushed to add, It’s only surface-level stuff. I’m no professional.

I see.

Mm...

The thread snapped, silence pooled again. Seeing the hush crawl back, Mira reached for another subject like grasping a fern in dim light.

Family, then... You’re going home to see them this time, right? She knew small talk wasn’t her blade. Still, she forced the line out.

Ah, no.

I see—huh?

She had already prepped another stiff pivot, then the words snagged. Her eyes widened, doubt pricking like frost.

Not...?

Mm. This time my adoptive family asked me to come back. My birth parents... passed when I was very young. On the migration here, they were attacked by Chaos beasts. In the end, only I was rescued...

Pengpeng’s words cut off. She lowered her head, breathed a few times, then raised a apologetic smile that trembled like candle flame. Sorry. I ended up answering something not really related to your question. It’s just... I rarely get chances to talk about it.

Mira watched her and remembered Varie on the rooftop, speaking of the price the Nacha Tribe paid to migrate. It pulled her quiet, but not like before. The irritation drained from her eyes like night ebbing. Her grip on the dried bloom loosened.

After a while, she shook her head gently.

You don’t need to apologize.

Pengpeng stared, surprised. It was probably the first time this ice-bred beauty had answered her with a voice soft as rain on moss.

I understand.

Eh? Understand what...

Mira paused, gaze sliding forward. She started walking again, but this time she didn’t overtake Pengpeng. She slowed and matched steps, shoulder to shoulder like two reeds gliding on the same current.

I’m an orphan too. The family register has only me left.

Ah? Pengpeng’s shock burst and hung there, then slowly settled. B-but you have a sister...

Do you think I look like her?

Uh...

She hadn’t seen the woman in person, but in a land of communication slates and dragon-slaying gossip flung around the Nacha territories, Pengpeng knew that popular human among the Elves had white hair and red eyes—nothing like Mira’s Elf-born features.

My story’s a bit like yours. The adoptive family had a biological daughter too. That’s her.

Oh, oh. I see...

If this were a few minutes ago, the two would’ve fallen back into that awkward hush. This time was different. Mira slid into the next line as if stepping over a shallow brook.

So, you first lived here in the orphanage?

Mm... Pengpeng scratched the back of her head, shy as a cat. Before I was adopted, I basically grew up here. Ah, don’t pity me! It doesn’t look fancy, sure, but those days were full and bright. No shadows left behind!

Mira nodded. Why did you come back after you turned adult?

Ah, I’m attached to the place that raised me. And kids my age all went out to find work. Someone has to stay and care for the little ones. Pengpeng grinned and shrugged, then rushed to clarify like a cook waving off smoke. I’m not calling the others ungrateful, okay? The orphanage runs on their shoulders. Without the money they send back, how could the little ones eat three meals a day like now?

She rolled her eyes, let out a strained sigh, and launched into how those brats didn’t know their luck—always whining about not getting some mountain feast even with hot bowls in front of them. My cooking’s not bad, alright! That last complaint slipped out unchecked, but the ice beauty who ate her big-pot meals daily didn’t frown. Mira nodded and agreed, cool as moonlight.

It was Pengpeng’s first time getting outright approval from her. Light flared in her eyes like a lantern caught at dusk. The lid on her voice-box popped, and stories spilled. She chattered to Mira about life in the orphanage.

Sweet memories, nagging worries, the defeat of losing an argument to a handful of kids, the helplessness of watching Copato weaken day by day with no medicine. By the end, she even confided about her first crush blooming and withering in the orphanage at lightning speed. Mira simply listened, patience smooth as lake water, nodding at times. She still didn’t say much, but to Pengpeng, this was Mira’s warmest day on record.

Realizing their pasts echoed, the distance between them thinned like fog in morning sun. The feeling freed Pengpeng’s talkative nature and even let her get a bit carried away—just enough to step past a line she’d drawn for herself.

She brought up her adoptive family.

It was one short sentence. While griping that her best friend and ex-crush had named her to give a speech at their wedding, she couldn’t help mentioning a clash with her adoptive family—her adoptive father thought she should attend out of courtesy, and she wanted to refuse. That simple sketch snagged Mira’s attention.

Because when Pengpeng said “adoptive father,” her lively face flickered unnatural for a beat, like she’d noticed she’d said the wrong thing and rushed on.

Mira didn’t miss the hitch. She didn’t pry either. She let Pengpeng finish the wedding disasters and farce, then said, calm as snowfall, Your judgment is right. You shouldn’t force yourself to go like your father asked.

Pengpeng weighed Mira’s words, swallowed, her eyes dodging like minnows but tinged with a hope she couldn’t smother—reaching for shared ground, afraid she’d imagined it.

So, Miss Mira, your adoptive father and mother... what kind of people are they?

Mira didn’t mull it over. She answered lightly, I’m grateful to them. If not for them, my sister wouldn’t be in this world.

Pengpeng almost failed to choke down the drop in that hope. Her head dipped a fraction, like a flower bowing to a late drizzle.

Oh, oh. I get it. They took you in, after all—

—but aside from that one thing, I often think if they had vanished from the world right after my sister was born, it would’ve been better for everyone.

...

The force of that answer hit like a bell. Pengpeng stared, stunned, then finally managed a wry smile.

Well... looks like every household wrestles with its own hard scripture.

Maybe.

Mira’s reply neither agreed nor denied. Pengpeng seemed like she had more to say, but a childish shout—Old Witch!—cut in, shoving a sidestepped problem back at her face.

She turned. The familiar iron gate had slid into view—without noticing, they were already almost home.

Near the gate stood the little pack, holding wooden signs scrawled with Old Witch plays favorites! and We want martial arts lessons like Copato!! They hollered her nickname and staged their tiny protest.

These little rascals—!

Veins jumped on Pengpeng’s forehead like vines. She squeezed the words through her teeth, and was set to march over and sweep their backsides with a broom. Mira stopped her with a voice like a hand on water.

Pengpeng, it’s alright.

How is it alright? These little brats climb up your nose and think pestering our Nacha Tribe benefactor is normal. Watch me sort them out!

Mira shook her head again, the gesture soft as a willow.

But while you’re gone, someone has to keep them in line, right?

Uh—!

The sentence pulled the lid off her worry. Pengpeng fell mute. Mira’s face didn’t change as she spoke the line that, so far, most overturned the first impression she’d given Pengpeng.

So, while you’re away, let me take your classes, Pengpeng.