Huang Ming woke in the darkness.
He lay still for a while, listening to the wind shrieking through the cracks in the thatch walls, the snow tapping lightly against the roof in waves, and then footsteps outside. The footsteps were steady and slow, neither heavy nor light, but each one had its own rhythm.
Huang Long was already awake.
He silently sat up, slipped on his old shoes with their worn-down heels, and walked into the kitchen. The embers from the night before still glowed faintly. He piled on some dry wood and blew gently until the fire flared up. His thin, small face reflected the red firelight, his quiet eyes gazing into the flames as though he were looking at something else, something farther away.
After starting the fire, he carried the pot out to the porch and sat down to wash it, slowly scrubbing each grain of rice. Steam rose and mingled with the murky white snow mist. That silent moment belonged only to him, before the whole world awakened.
Huang Long had been training with his sword for half an hour.
He stood in the backyard beside the old plum tree, the iron sword in his hand turning as though it were part of his body. Falling snow circled him, driven away by the current of air from the sword's tip. Not a single flake could touch him. Today he was faster, each sword stroke steady and precise, like the folds in a piece of cloth.
Huang Ming finished washing the pot, stood up, and watched his brother from the doorway for a while. There was no envy in his eyes, no longing—he was simply looking. As though admiring something self-evident, like watching the sun rise.
He turned back to the kitchen, ladled water from the barrel into the pot, sliced a radish, and began cooking porridge.
When the porridge began to simmer, he heard the back door open. Huang Long carried his sword inside and sat down beside the fire, holding both hands out toward the flames. The heat reddened his fingers.
"The snow's thicker this morning," Huang Long said in an even, low voice. "Nearly half a zhang."
Huang Ming nodded without asking anything else. He knew thicker snow meant Huang Long would have a harder time hunting, but it also meant fewer people would travel the road into the forest, so he might be able to find more game.
Mac Tuyet came out, her hair still tousled, her eyes half-closed. She walked over and sat beside the fire, her head nearly drooping onto Huang Ming's shoulder. She mumbled something unintelligible, then fell asleep again.
Huang Ming did not push her away. He simply sat there, stirring the porridge and letting her lean against him. Huang Long looked at the two younger children. His expression shifted for the briefest moment—perhaps softening—but soon turned cold again as usual.
Breakfast passed in silence. Mac Tuyet fully woke after a bowl of porridge, her face flushed from the heat. She looked out the door and saw that the snow had blanketed the entire yard. Suddenly, she cried out:
"Ming, the snow's so thick! Do you have to go shovel it today?"
"I do." Huang Ming nodded and set down his bowl. "Old Vuong's house, Old Ly's house, and a few houses along the street."
"That'll take forever." Mac Tuyet frowned. "Should I go meet you when you come back late?"
Huang Long spoke up. "No. Let him come back on his own."
Mac Tuyet fell silent. She never argued with Huang Long. She only looked at Huang Ming as if she wanted to say something, but did not dare.
Huang Ming lowered his head, picked up the old broom, and went out the door. The snow came nearly to his knees as he trudged down the hill one step at a time. The wind slashed across his face like a knife. He wrapped both arms tightly around the broom against his chest to keep warm.
It was a long day in Tuyet Van Town.
He swept the snow from in front of Old Vuong's house, then Old Ly's, then a row of houses along the main street. Each household gave him a handful of rice, a radish, or, occasionally, a strip of dried meat. He tucked everything neatly into the cloth bag at his hip, not daring to show too much. The town's children often spotted it and snatched his food away.
He was sweeping in front of Old Ha's grocery when the children appeared again.
Trieu Thuong Hanh was not with them this time. There were three of them, each a year or two older than Huang Ming. They were the same kids who often followed Trieu Thuong Hanh around. They blocked his path in the middle of the street, small stones in their hands, tossing them into the air and catching them for fun.
"You cripple, you've been shoveling snow since morning. You must've gotten quite a haul, huh?"
"We're hungry. Give us some rice."
"If you don't, we'll just take it ourselves."
Huang Ming stopped sweeping and looked at them. He said nothing, showing neither fear nor anger. He merely stood there, the broom propped beside him.
One of them stepped forward and reached for the rice bag at his hip. Huang Ming gripped the broom handle tightly, his body tensing. He had been beaten many times, but he had never taken the initiative to raise a hand against anyone. But he had also never let go of what he had earned.
The boy seized the rice bag and yanked hard. Huang Ming held on tight, and the two of them wrestled over it. The others burst out laughing, while another stepped forward and shoved him into the snow. The rice bag was ripped away and fell to the ground, spilling some of its contents across the white snow.
Huang Ming lay on his side in the snow, rice scattered around his face. He watched the white grains slowly blend into the ice in silence.
A figure appeared at the end of the street.
Huang Long.
He walked slowly, but his tall frame and the sword on his back made all three children freeze. Huang Long stopped in front of them, looked down at the trembling little flour sacks, then turned his gaze to Huang Ming, still lying in the snow.
One of them stammered, "We—we were only joking..."
Huang Long did not answer. He walked closer, crouched down, and extended a hand toward Huang Ming. His deep black eyes looked at his younger brother without saying a word.
Huang Ming sat up but did not take his hand. He stood on his own, brushed the snow from his clothes, picked up the remaining rice bag, then crouched down and began gathering each grain that had fallen onto the snow. One grain at a time, back into the bag.
Huang Long stood watching. He did not help. He did not speak.
The children ran away.
After Huang Ming finished picking up the rice, he took his broom and continued sweeping. Huang Long remained there for a while, then turned and walked straight away without looking back.
By the time Huang Ming returned home, the afternoon was already waning.
He put the rice bag and radishes in the kitchen, utterly exhausted. Sitting on the doorstep, he removed his soaking-wet shoes. His feet were already numb with cold. He rubbed his hands together to warm them, but his fingers remained stiff.
Mac Tuyet ran out from inside and wrapped her arms around him from behind. Pressing her small face against his back, she said softly:
"Ming, you came back so late. Are you cold?"
"No."
She reached around from behind and took his hand in her small one, then jumped in surprise. "You're cold as ice!"
She ran into the kitchen, fetched a small towel, dipped it in warm water, and hurried back to wipe his hands. Huang Ming let her do it without resisting. The warmth seeped through his skin and slowly spread through his hands, like a small ray of light in the darkness.
Huang Long sat on the other side of the porch, his back against the wall and one hand resting on his sword hilt. He did not look inside. But he heard everything.
"Was big brother home at noon?" Mac Tuyet asked softly.
"No," Huang Ming replied. "He went into town, then went somewhere else. I didn't ask."
Mac Tuyet was silent for a moment, then suddenly said, "I saw big brother come home at noon, and then leave right away. He had his sword and went toward the forest."
Huang Ming said nothing. He knew Huang Long had not gone into town for a stroll. But he did not ask, because he knew that if something had happened, Huang Long would tell him.
That evening, Mac Tuyet cooked a pot of radish soup with a little dried meat. The three of them sat eating in the cramped house, snow-laden wind pounding against the roof like someone knocking at the door.
Huang Ming looked at the two people before him: his taciturn brother and his little sister singing a nameless song. He thought to himself: This was his home. Cold, miserable, and even though he was a cripple, it was still his home.
He bit into a piece of radish, its faint sweetness spreading through his mouth. Then he looked out the window, where snow continued to fall in steady strands like white silk.
Outside, night had fully fallen. The small hill stood barren amid a sea of snow, three thatched houses sitting motionless upon it. Another night in the lives of three children.
Mac Tuyet stopped singing and looked at Huang Ming. "Ming, do you have to shovel snow again tomorrow?"
He nodded.
"I want to go with you."
"No." Huang Ming's voice was firm. "The snow is freezing. Stay home and tend the fire."
She said nothing more. She simply lowered her head, picked up her chopsticks, and placed a piece of meat in Huang Ming's bowl. He looked at the meat, then at her.
He did not eat it. He left it there.
After night fell and Mac Tuyet was fast asleep, Huang Ming sat beside the fire, holding his hands out to warm them.
Huang Long walked over and sat down beside him. After a long while, he asked:
"Do you want to learn the sword?"
Huang Ming was startled.
He looked up at his brother. Huang Long's face held no expression, but those black eyes stared straight at him. It was neither pity nor encouragement. Just a question.
Huang Ming thought of his empty dantian, of the spiritual energy he could not absorb, and of the word "cripple" that had followed him since childhood. He thought of the grains of rice scattered across the snow, and how he had to pick them up one by one while the children laughed at him.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Huang Long did not wait. He stood up, carried his sword back to his room, and called over his shoulder before closing the door:
"You don't have to answer right away. Just think about it."
The door closed.
Huang Ming remained seated before the fire. The embers popped and crackled, their light dancing across the thatch walls. He did not know whether he could learn the sword, but his brother's words kept echoing in his mind.
*You don't have to answer right away.*
He clenched his hands, feeling the lingering numbness in his fingers from the snow.
Outside, the snow continued to fall.
Huang Ming stared into the flames, wondering if he would ever escape that shell of a cripple.
But he did not say it aloud.
He simply sat there in the darkness, accompanied by the crackling fire, the wind shrieking over the thatched roof, and the faint song drifting from Mac Tuyet's sleep.
Then he stood up, added more wood to the fire, and returned to his old blanket.
Before closing his eyes, he thought about Huang Long's question.
Someday, he would answer.
But not tonight.