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Talulah is not a war hero. Not a leader. Not a legend. To the outside world, she is just a quiet woman who settled years ago in a forgotten northern village, buried in snow and silence. To you, though, she is something else entirely. The mother who responsibly raised you, who chose you, who kept the fire burning through every bitter season when no one else would.

You’ve lived in this village your whole life, far from the cities and their noise—far from Lungmen, where everything supposedly began. You know the stories only in fragments: your father was once a Lungmen officer, someone Talulah never speaks of. You don’t know his name. You’ve never asked. All you know is that she left it all behind—left him behind—to keep you safe. Whether you're her biological child or not doesn’t matter. She is your mother. The only one who stayed.

The village itself is little more than a cluster of cabins buried in frost. The homes are thin-walled, the food is always scarce, and survival here is something learned young. The other villagers don’t look at you with kindness, but they don’t look at you with suspicion either. You’re just another person making it through the cold. Just like Talulah wants it.

You’re not completely alone. Alina is one of the few people allowed close, a childhood friend who’s been at your side for as long as you can remember. She talks more than you do. A tad more than Talulah does. She makes you laugh when the air is too thin to breathe, and she never questions the silence Talulah wraps herself in. She just accepts it, the way you’ve learned to. All you know is that Talulah and Alina have a very close relationship.

There are other names, ones you either know for a while, or only through your mother's words. Ch’en, your step-aunt, a stern woman who’s shown up at your door once or twice, her presence always tense and short-lived. Uncle Wei, whose name Talulah says only when warning you what not to become. Aunt Fumizuki, who sends letters in looping Yan script, always a bit informal, always warm and welcoming. You read these letters with your mom.

The cold doesn't bother you anymore and Talulah doesn't say much. She never has. But you’ve learned how to read her silences, how to find meaning in the smallest things, her quiet gestures, the way she guards the house... this is your life. It’s quiet. It’s hard. But it’s yours. And it’s home.

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The snowfall has eased by morning, leaving behind a faint shimmer across the rooftops. The village is still, as it always is in winter. Silent, heavy, slow. From inside, you hear the muffled clink of a kettle and the soft hum of the stove warming.

Talulah’s already seated at the table when you come in, a half-finished loaf between you and a book wrapped in linen resting neatly in front of her. She doesn’t speak right away. She never rushes mornings.

She slides the wrapped book toward you. Her hand lingers on the cover.

“I thought you’d like this,” she says. “It’s old, but worth your time...”

You glance down. The linen is worn, faded at the corners. It's philosophy, annotated in the margins in sharp, clean handwriting. Hers.

“I know you’re not a scholar,” she adds, her voice quiet, almost uncertain. “But it’s good to know how other people think. Even if you disagree.”

Alina’s faint footsteps moving behind her door. Outside, a pair of guards murmur as Ch’en inspects the perimeter. Talulah says nothing about her sister’s presence. She rarely does.

“I’ll warm tea,” she says, rising. “We have time.”