"My hands are killing me," Victoria complained, dropping dramatically to the wooden floor. The impact sent a faint puff of dust into the afternoon light. She stretched her fingers toward the ceiling as though presenting evidence of injustice.
The flowering tree beside the shrine swayed in the breeze, pale petals trembling before surrendering to gravity. Leaves scraped softly across the courtyard stones, gathering in the corners like quiet conspirators.
"Are you done sweeping the leaves?" she asked, pushing herself upright, strands of hair clinging to her forehead with sweat.
"Are you asking to know or to rush me?" I replied, drawing the broom in one last steady arc. The bristles whispered over stone.
"Both."
I ignored her and finished properly. There is a right way to end a task. Half-done work lingers in the mind like an itch.
When the last leaf joined the pile, I exhaled and leaned the broom against the wall.
The bathwater was nearly too warm at first touch, heat wrapping around my sore wrists and fingers until the ache loosened its grip. Steam rose in soft spirals, fogging the small window above the tub. I sank lower, letting the tension melt from my shoulders.
Pine-scented soap. Clean. Sharp. Almost forest-like. I rubbed it between my palms, watching the suds gather and drift across the surface.
Stepping out with a towel, the cool air kissed my damp skin, and I shivered pleasantly. The contrast felt earned.
I padded down the corridor to Victoria's room.
"The bath is open," I informed her.
"You really took your time," she said, rolling onto her side before pushing herself up. "Ah! Pine. Where's Ezra?" She sniffed theatrically.
"With Miss Hazel."
She paused mid-step. "Still can't believe they went to stay there."
That brought a smile to my face. The memory of Zinnia arriving at the shrine, clutching Ezra's sleeve as though they might evaporate, was still vivid.
After dressing, I waited near the kitchen while Victoria finished.
"Ah, yes—cold water really hits the spot," she declared from inside her room, as though the experience required documentation.
"Boiled or fried?" she asked, carrying the eggs like a vendor displaying her wares.
"I like both. They each have their good points," I said, setting the kettle on the stove. The metal clicked softly as flame caught beneath it.
"Heiwa, you know I cannot make oatmeal to save my life, so you'll have to do it," she said, already measuring coffee grounds.
"You could learn."
"I'd rather not ruin breakfast with an experiment," she replied, arranging plates with unnecessary precision.
The kitchen filled with small, comforting sounds: the bubbling of oats, the crack of eggs against a bowl's edge, the hiss of butter melting in the pan. Coffee's rich aroma soon joined the sweetness of warm grain.
Breakfast was simple but generous—oatmeal steaming in bowls, slices of bread stacked neatly, omelette folded golden at the edges, boiled eggs resting in small porcelain cups.
"Would have preferred orange juice, but good job," Miss Li Hua commented, dabbing her lips with a napkin.
Victoria placed her hand dramatically over her heart. "I accept this critique."
"So, off to the market after this?" she confirmed as we washed the dishes.
"That is the schedule."
The market was alive in the way only morning markets can be—voices layered over one another, the metallic ring of scales weighing produce, the sharp scent of fish mingling with crushed herbs underfoot.
"So, what's on the list?" Victoria asked, eyes darting from stall to stall.
"Oxtail, though pork will do as an alternative. Pechay, string beans, banana blossom, eggplant, peanuts—"
I stopped. She was no longer listening.
"Heiwa, look at that kitten!" A small grey cat darted between baskets, tail high, utterly unconcerned with commerce.
"I see it," I replied, gently guiding her back toward the butcher.
The oxtail was thick and marbled, promising hours of patient simmering. We haggled as expected—prices protested, hands waved, a compromise eventually struck. Vegetables followed, their skins smooth and cool beneath my fingertips.
"Did you hear about the sculpture in Stone Garden? It's an interesting piece," someone said.
I paused. Just for a moment. Then I exhaled and caught up with Victoria, who was talking to herself as usual.
"Fifteen sen for one meal is outrageous," Victoria gasped as we climbed the shrine steps, arms heavy with purchases.
"Good ingredients demand respect," I answered, shifting the basket's weight.
Back in the kitchen, the oxtail went into the pot with a deep, satisfying thud. Water followed, then ginger, onion, and a scatter of spices. Soon, the lid trembled gently as the stew began its slow transformation.
"It's going to take over an hour," Victoria groaned.
"In the meantime, we prepare the peanuts."
She pounded roasted peanuts and rice into paste with rhythmic determination. Thud. Grind. Thud. The sound echoed through the small kitchen like a heartbeat.
I chopped vegetables—pechay leaves crisp and vibrant, eggplant pale and sponge-like, string beans snapping cleanly under the knife. The air thickened with steam and scent, rich and earthy.
After hours of tending—skimming broth, adjusting flame, tasting and correcting—the stew deepened in color and aroma. The meat yielded easily to the spoon, the sauce thickened by peanut paste and patience.
It was late for lunch, but no one complained once bowls were filled.
"I didn't know you could prepare this," Dōngzhí said, eyebrows lifting as she tasted.
"I got the recipe from Miss Hazel," I replied, heat rising to my cheeks.
"Good job," Miss Li Hua approved.
"I helped too," Victoria inserted quickly.
"Very good job," Mr Mumeishi corrected, lips twitching.
The stew was rich, nutty, layered with warmth. Satisfaction settled into the room like an honored guest.
"Ah, that was so stressful but delicious," Victoria declared as we began washing the dishes.
"Next time, something simpler," she added firmly.
"Next time," I agreed, passing her another plate.
"I will find something simpler but equally delicious," I continued, a proud smile threatening to surface.
She flicked my forehead lightly. "I hope you are not plotting."
I flicked her back. "No wicked thoughts."
The sun dipped lower, casting long amber light across the courtyard. The flowering tree shimmered in the glow, petals drifting down once more.
Heiwa wa, rikai shi ukeireru koto kara umareru.
Peace is born from understanding and acceptance.
Maybe peace is something that must be maintained to last.
I stood there a moment longer, watching the light soften into evening.
The petals fell again.
They always would.
Work must be done again tomorrow.