Pengpeng’s return came three days late, like a torn calendar leaf that wouldn’t fall.

By the time Mira heard cheers bursting at the gate, the week’s last evening was already fading like an ember.

She pushed the courtyard door, and saw everyone circling Pengpeng, suitcases stacked like small hills, a storm cloud on her face, the kids chirping like sparrows: “Old witch, you’re so slow, we missed you!”

Usually, “old witch” would spark thunder and a flurry of forehead flicks, yet tonight Pengpeng had no lightning left; she just told them to scram to bed, then dragged her tired shadow toward her room like an ebbing tide.

“Need a hand?”

“Eh?”

Mira hadn’t hidden in the dark, yet her voice still startled Pengpeng; the pack slipped like a tipped basket, and Mira stepped in, catching it before everything spilled like beans.

“Uh… thanks.”

Mira took in how different she looked from when she’d left, then saw the messy clothes peeking from a half-zipped bag—disarray that shouldn’t cling to the woman who keeps a whole orphanage running like a tight loom.

After a pause, she said softly, “You look exhausted.”

“Ah, d-do I? Must’ve been the cart, too bumpy to sleep… haha.” The laugh was paper-thin, and it broke in the air like ice.

Silence pooled, then Pengpeng lifted her head and forced a smile like a cracked glaze. “You seem… pretty used to life here now.”

“Mm.”

“The little brats didn’t give you trouble, right?”

“They’re the same as ever.”

“Ha… right.”

The thread snapped again. Mira sensed the weight that kept the words from flowing; she didn’t pull. She simply carried the bag she’d caught, walked her to the door, and left a quiet goodnight like a lantern left lit.

“You know they’re all waiting for you.”

Mira turned away. Pengpeng stood at her door a long time, then sighed, white mist blooming in the cold like a withered flower.

“I… of course I know.”

The next morning, the day clicked back into place like a wheel finding its track.

After a week, the wake-up bell returned—Pengpeng’s signature rhythm, a rolling pin drumming the pot bottom, clanging until the quilt monster spat every last lazy bug from its belly.

“Up! Breakfast time!”

As if the fatigue and low pressure of last night were a mirage, her voice was bright as morning sun, her eyes clear; every kid who dared call her “old witch” got a solid forehead thump, thunder in a flick.

Mira still didn’t know what had carved last night’s weariness into Pengpeng’s eyes; but seeing her as usual now, Mira’s heart unknotted, and the last thread of worry slipped back into the shade like a shy fish.

With sniffling after the bonks and laughter chasing tears, the orphanage’s old rhythm fell back in step like a drumline.

The same tasty three meals, the same noisy routine, and a schedule with a few new strokes of ink.

Not everything could rewind. Mira’s substitute classes continued; she’d lit a hunger for knowledge and strength, a fire Pengpeng had never tended and couldn’t easily take over.

At this point, to teach for a week and drop the chalk would be a knife to the kids’ hopes.

So when Mira told Varie she meant to give these orphans the education they were owed, she wasn’t just needling her; her voice carried iron under silk.

She didn’t know how long she’d stay, but in that time, she meant to see it through like a vow cut into stone.

Her one-on-one with Anta thinned, and in exchange, mornings gained a class on conditioning and combat basics; Anta gained more sparring than she could count, like rain on spring fields.

Pengpeng, of course, was grateful to have someone who could keep this pack of cubs in line; as Varie had said, it looked like a clean win-win, a table set with enough bowls.

And yet one thorn remained for Pengpeng: she couldn’t see what Mira gained from all this extra trouble, this net she threw over strangers of another race.

Why did Mira do so much for those not her own? She often felt the urge to ask, a spark striking dry tinder.

She held back, but… even if she asked, she wouldn’t get an answer.

Not because Mira wore an ice-mountain face, but because Mira herself hadn’t looked into that mirror.

Two months later, one night fell quiet as ash. Mira gave the little ones half a day off, found herself free, and drifted to her desk like a leaf to a pond. The unfinished letter lay there like a wound; she blinked, then the question finally rose.

Emptiness first, then ache. What am I doing?

She had once decided, clear as winter air, that what little life remained would belong to one person and one purpose, a single flame guarded with both hands.

Yet her presence had become a stone in that person’s path; being driven away by her own hand had been the gentlest mercy, a soft blade.

So be it.

All this should be meaningless to her—like the first time she agreed to shop with Pengpeng, a way to flee the pain of writing and thinking, to drown the sorrow of being cast off in busyness like water over a mill.

No deduction needed, no proof—just a glance to see how pitiful this is.

Her pen stalled again, and before the ink could bloom outward like a spreading bruise, she heard voices outside—Anta, Copato, and the others, their laughter rising like kites in wind.

“Mira-jie!” “Teacher!” “Shifu!”

They crowded her window in a tide; too short to show faces, a field of beast ears twitched at the sill like grass in a breeze. The tallest tiptoed, chanting “A gift!” and “Please take it!”, and passed in a bouquet of wildflowers through the open window like a burst of color.

Mira stared at the flowers, dew beading and flecks of soil clinging like freckles. After a heartbeat, she took them and breathed a light thank you.

“I’ll keep them… but all these kinds—where did you pick them?”

“In the old witch’s garden!”

…

“Hey, you little brats, itching for trouble again?!” Pengpeng’s roar cracked like a frying pan, and the window crowd scattered like birds. Mira sat there with the bouquet, still a little dazed, a vase without water.

After a long while, she lowered her face, looked into the flowers, and listened to Pengpeng chasing the cubs, a storm tumbling across the yard.

“Honestly, what are you all doing…”

Her voice carried a smile that even startled her; the dew on the petals held its reflection like a tiny mirror, and that smile was real.

Yes… even knowing this means nothing, perhaps—just perhaps—she didn’t resist a day like this, a small hearth in the wind.

Her one regret: if her sister were here, maybe she’d like it too… The thought swelled and she sighed, realizing how greedy and selfish it was, then banished it like smoke with a wave.

Even so, the bouquet’s fragrance circled her heart like a slow swirl of tea.

Rarely, she found she didn’t need to count to two or breathe deep; her hand lifted, and the pen laid tracks across paper like a skater on new ice.

Peace, however, is a pond that always finds a stone.

That day, Varie swung by again. After their usual cold-and-spicy exchange, she left a toy from Lama City: a pair of magitech beast ears.

They did what Mira’s mimic Elf ears did, only in a different shape; Varie, on her way out, hammered the point that the Elf gear was a knockoff of Nacha tech, not the other way round.

Mira didn’t fully buy it; Elves should be better at crafting magitech trinkets. History aside, another mask meant another road—especially for purple-haired Anta.

Even with Elf ears, nobody would buy it; but with beast ears, she could pass for the Nacha Tribe and walk Sanda’s streets like a local shadow.

Anta herself didn’t crave it, but her new friend Copato did; the moment she heard, she latched on and wouldn’t let go. Anta yielded to that never-quit pestering, put them on, and stood before the mirror, purple eyes widening like stars.

“Wow, Anta, you look… exactly like us!”

“Mm… really?”

Anta still sounded unsure. Copato nodded hard, tucked her ears into her hair, and crowed, “See? No one will notice!”

“Mm…”

“If you don’t believe me, let’s ask people on the street!” Copato’s eyes lit like lanterns. “And I can show you that rock that blooms! Come on, come on!”

She turned a pleading gaze to Mira, a blue-haired catgirl begging with both paws.

Once, Mira would’ve shut the door with a cold face. But today, seeing that imploring look and the thin thread of longing in Anta’s eyes, the no caught in her throat like a seed.

She nodded at last—on one condition: she would go along and watch.

As it turned out, Copato was right. Anta’s disguise was seamless; it was Mira the “Elf” who drew gazes on Sanda’s streets like a bright banner.

After a couple of trips, Mira let the reins loosen. She pressed a magic stone for emergencies into Anta’s palm, a small moon for dark roads.

And as if the heavens liked cruel jokes, soon after the first time Anta and Copato went out alone, Mira felt the stone’s signal shatter like glass in the gut.