The sky still had not fully brightened when Huang Ming stepped out of the house.
He carried a drooping grass-fiber broom over his shoulder and headed down the small slope leading into Tuyet Van Town. Last night's snow had fallen thick, covering the trail. Each step sank nearly to his knees. He was in no hurry, moving slowly and counting out a steady rhythm to keep his breath warm inside his chest.
Tuyet Van Town was smaller than outsiders imagined. Only one main road ran from the town gate to the far end of the village. Low wooden houses lined both sides, their walls made of pine boards faded to gray. Chimneys were beginning to release white smoke. A few doors had already opened, and voices called to one another through the murky snow mist.
Huang Ming went to Old Vuong's house, a red-brick home at the edge of town, and began sweeping the snow from the front door. This was the only work he could find—a handful of rice or a potato in exchange for a morning of snow shoveling. He did not mind. At least he could still do something.
The snow beneath his feet was soft and fine, making it easy to sweep. But the weather was cold. His hands reddened after a while, and his fingers gradually went numb. He blew warm air into his palms, then continued.
Old Vuong came out. Seeing him sweeping, he nodded. "Kid, you're here early again today."
Huang Ming looked up. "Yes."
"That was a heavy snowfall last night. Clear it all away, and I'll give you a radish later." Old Vuong rubbed his hands, glanced at the sky, then went back inside.
Huang Ming continued sweeping, each motion slow and careful, leaving no corner untouched. The snow was pushed to either side of the path, exposing the hard, cold gravel beneath. When he reached the bend, he heard footsteps coming from ahead.
Four children, around thirteen or fourteen, were walking down from the upper end of town. The one in front wore a new padded coat and carried a flower-embroidered cloth bag over his shoulder. Beside him walked three others dressed far more cleanly than the poor children in town. They laughed and shouted, holding steaming baked goods in their hands.
The one in front spotted Huang Ming and stopped.
"Hey, look at that. The snow shoveler is out working again."
Another child laughed. "He's here every day. Like a loyal dog."
The leader broke off a piece of his pastry and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, then walked toward Huang Ming. He was the son of a merchant in town, named Trieu Thuong Hanh—the one who often led the children in tormenting Huang Ming. He had no reason to hate Huang Ming, aside from enjoying watching people who did not dare fight back.
"Cripple, didn't we beat you hard enough yesterday? How are you still able to walk?"
Huang Ming did not look up. His hand continued sweeping the snow at an even pace, as if he had heard nothing. He had learned long ago that silence was the quickest way to make these children lose interest and leave.
Seeing that he got no reaction, Trieu Thuong Hanh stepped forward and kicked Huang Ming's broom, sending it flying to the side. The others burst into laughter. Huang Ming stopped, picked up the broom, and continued sweeping.
"Are you mute?" Trieu Thuong Hanh bent down to look at his face, deliberately emphasizing every word. "Crip—ple."
Huang Ming noticed a finger pointing directly in front of his eyes. He looked at the finger, then at Trieu Thuong Hanh. His gaze was as calm as the surface of a frozen lake, containing nothing but a still, lifeless gray.
Trieu Thuong Hanh disliked that look. He pulled his hand back and cleared his throat. "Forget it. Don't waste your breath on this guy. Let's go."
The children continued on together, leaving Huang Ming standing in the middle of the snowy road. He picked up the broom that had been kicked aside and gently brushed the snow from its handle. After a while, he resumed sweeping.
An hour passed.
Huang Ming finished clearing Old Vuong's courtyard and received three white radishes and a small bag of rice. He tied the rice bag to his waist, carried the radishes in both arms, and walked home. On the way, the wind grew stronger. Snowflakes began flying sideways. He shivered and pulled up his collar.
At the foot of the hill, he encountered an old man resting on a stone slab beside the road. The old man wore an old padded coat and had a gray scarf wrapped around his head. His eyes were tightly shut, as if he were asleep. But when Huang Ming passed by, the old man suddenly spoke:
"Hey, kid."
Huang Ming stopped.
The old man kept his eyes closed and extended a callused hand. "You dropped one of your radishes."
Huang Ming looked down. Sure enough, one of the radishes had rolled from his arms without him noticing. He bent to pick it up, then raised his face to look at the old man. The old man had opened his eyes, but they were blind and clouded white, unable to see a thing. Yet he had still known that Huang Ming dropped the radish.
Huang Ming remained silent. The old man smiled, revealing sparse teeth. "You're the boy who lives on the hill, aren't you? The two brothers. And the little sister who likes to sing."
"...Yes."
"Don't be surprised." The old man rose with the aid of his cane. "The blind hear better than those with sight. I heard your footsteps from far away—light and even, nothing like the other children who run around town. You know how to conserve your strength. That's a good thing."
Huang Ming did not understand what the old man was trying to say. The old man smiled again. "Don't worry about it. I'm just an old man wandering through here, and I'll be leaving soon. But..." He paused, as if listening to something in the wind, then continued, "The Snowmoon Kingdom is terribly cold, but your breath feels different from the people here. Do you know where you came from?"
"No."
The old man nodded. "Then don't ask. I don't have an answer either. But..." He raised a finger. "There is one thing I do know. The ice and snow here are not your home."
Huang Ming stood motionless. The old man's words were unclear, yet they touched precisely upon an emptiness Huang Ming himself did not dare acknowledge.
"Why do you say that?"
The old man did not answer. He took up his cane and shuffled along the road, his coat fading into the snow. Before he disappeared, he called back:
"Some things don't need to be explained. But you'll see for yourself before long."
Huang Ming remained there a while longer. Snow settled on his shoulders, and he did not brush it off. He only stared toward where the old man had vanished into the white curtain of snow. Then he bent to pick up the radish and headed home.
When he arrived, Huang Long had already returned.
He sat before the porch, wiping an iron sword with a clean piece of cloth. Several streaks of fresh blood on the blade had dried brown. On the step beside him lay a wild rabbit and two snow chickens—the fruits of his hunt in the forest.
Huang Ming set the radishes and rice bag down in the kitchen, then stepped onto the porch. He did not ask about the blood, and Huang Long did not explain. A moment later, Huang Long asked:
"Did anything happen to you in town?"
"No."
Huang Long looked at him. His gaze passed over Huang Ming's wrist, where an old purple bruise remained, then moved away. He did not ask anything else.
Mac Tuyet ran out of the kitchen. Seeing the game, she cried out, "Big brother, you caught so much!" She crouched and stroked the dead rabbit's head, her face slightly sad, though she said nothing. She knew hunting was how they survived the winter. She also knew that rabbit would become dinner for all three of them.
She carried the rabbit into the kitchen and began preparing it. Huang Ming followed her in and sat down to start the fire. Huang Long remained on the porch, wiping his sword.
After a while, Mac Tuyet asked softly, "Ming, are you tired from this morning?"
Huang Ming hesitated. "No."
She looked at his hands and saw that his fingers were red and swollen from the cold. She took a small cloth, dipped it in warm water, and placed it over his hands. She said nothing. She simply acted.
Huang Ming looked at the small hands laying the cloth over his own, and an indescribable feeling welled up inside him. He lowered his head and did not look at her.
Outside on the porch, Huang Long had risen. He carried his sword into the backyard and stood beneath an old plum tree, beginning his afternoon sword practice. The snow continued to fall, but it did not slow him down.
In the kitchen, the two children sat beside the fire without saying a word. The sword hissed through the wind, the fire crackled, and a sudden ancient song rose from Mac Tuyet—gentle and hazy, like the warmth of falling snow in the middle of winter.
Huang Ming glanced at her and saw that she was smiling.
He did not know why, but suddenly he felt that the cold of Tuyet Van Town would not last forever.
Then he secretly laughed at himself for thinking that way.
Twelve years had passed amid ice and snow, and he had never once seen spring.
He held his hands before the fire, warming them as he tried to forget the blind old man's words.
*Some things don't need to be spoken aloud.*
He did not understand, but he remembered.
Night fell, and the three children gathered around a pot of rabbit stew with radishes. Steam rose, melting the frost on the mud walls. Mac Tuyet sang another song, just as ancient as the one that morning, but happier this time. Huang Long ate in silence, occasionally placing pieces of meat into Mac Tuyet's and Huang Ming's bowls.
Huang Ming watched the soup boil furiously, then looked out through the window as gusts of snow battered it again and again. A thought briefly crossed his mind: If he could cultivate, he would hunt with his brother, so Huang Long would not have to enter the forest alone every day.
But he was only a cripple.
He bit into a piece of rabbit meat, chewed, and forgot the thought.
Outside, the snow continued to fall. Forever, it seemed, without ever stopping.