Hoàng Long left before dawn.
Hoàng Minh stood at the door, watching his older brother's figure gradually disappear down the hillside, the iron sword strapped to his back, his dark silhouette fading into the white curtain of snow. Hoàng Long did not look back or wave. He walked as he did every day, except that today he carried a cloth bag of dried food, and he would not return before nightfall.
Hoàng Minh stood there for a while, until Hoàng Long's figure vanished completely. The wind blew, snow swept through the air, and the hill became emptier than he had ever known it.
Mặc Tuyết came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of hot porridge. She handed it to Hoàng Minh without saying anything, but her eyes asked, “Are you all right?”
Hoàng Minh accepted the bowl. Its heat warmed his palms. He nodded and sat down on the doorstep to eat. Mặc Tuyết sat beside him, her legs swinging over the snow. She said nothing either.
After breakfast, Hoàng Minh took his broom and went down to the town. He shoveled snow as usual, but his hands could not stop thinking about the piece of wood hidden beneath his padded coat. After finishing at Old Wang's house, he turned into a narrow alley, took out the wood, and practiced a few more movements. He did not dare continue for long, since someone might see him, but even a few minutes were enough to make his arm feel less unfamiliar with the piece of wood.
When he returned in the afternoon, he started the stove and cooked porridge with Mặc Tuyết. The two of them ate dinner in silence. When darkness fell, Hoàng Minh carried the piece of wood out into the yard.
No one was watching tonight. There were no footsteps from Hoàng Long in the darkness. No sword hissed behind him. There was only the snow, and him.
He stood beneath the old plum tree and repeated the five movements—left diagonal slash, right diagonal slash, downward chop, low horizontal sweep, thrust followed by a high horizontal sweep—over and over. He tried to keep his balance and keep his wrist from tensing too much. But without Hoàng Long's figure standing in front of him, he suddenly felt unsteady, as if his movements had lost their anchor.
He stopped and panted.
The piece of wood in his hand suddenly felt heavier. He did not know where he had gone wrong. He only knew that there was an emptiness imitation could not fill.
He stood there for a while, the sweat on his forehead already gone cold. Snow gathered on his shoulders and hair, but he did not brush it away.
Mặc Tuyết came out carrying an oil lamp. She said nothing. She simply came to stand beside him and raised the lamp, letting its light cover the small yard. Their shadows stretched across the snow, side by side, like two young pine trees in the night.
“I saw you practicing last night,” she said. “It still looked beautiful.”
Hoàng Minh looked at her. “Beautiful?”
“Yes. Beautiful because you were the one performing them.”
Hoàng Minh did not know how to respond, so he raised the piece of wood and started again from the beginning. Mặc Tuyết stood there, holding the lamp, never leaving.
He repeated the five movements again and again, and he no longer felt alone.
That night, after Mặc Tuyết had fallen asleep, Hoàng Minh sat beside the fire, rubbing the knuckles swollen from practice. He watched the flames and thought about Hoàng Long.
He did not know where his brother was in the forest, whether he was cold or in danger. He only knew that now he was the only one keeping the fire alive in this house.
He held his hands out over the stove to warm them, then slowly clenched them into fists.
The next day, Hoàng Minh rose before dawn. He did not need anyone to wake him. He went into the yard and practiced until the sky began to brighten. Then he went into the kitchen, cooked porridge, and woke Mặc Tuyết. All day he shoveled snow, then returned in the afternoon and practiced the sword movements with Mặc Tuyết beside him.
The second day was the same.
On the third day, he began to feel the five movements becoming more familiar. His hands no longer trembled when he raised the wood. He could perform all five movements in one continuous flow without stopping.
He did not know whether that counted as progress, but he felt something quieter inside him.
On the fourth day, the children from town came looking for him again.
Triệu Thương Hành was not leading them this time, but there were three others, older than him, with hostile expressions. They found him at the end of the street while he was shoveling snow in front of an empty house. One of them stepped forward, shoved him into the snow, and yanked the rice bag from his waist.
Hoàng Minh fell, but he did not lie there as he usually did. He sat up at once and looked at the child holding the rice bag.
“Give it back,” he said.
The other child laughed. “Give it back? What are you talking like that for, cripple?”
Hoàng Minh stood up, gripping the broom handle tightly. He thought of the five movements—but the broom handle was not the piece of wood, and this was not the yard behind his house.
“I said give it back,” he repeated.
The child threw the rice bag onto the ground, stomped on it, then walked away, laughing loudly. The bag tore, and white grains scattered over the snow like tiny points of light.
Hoàng Minh bent down to pick up the rice bag, then gathered the grains one by one, just as he had that day, just as he did every other day. But this time he did not cry, get angry, or despair.
He simply picked them up and thought about the piece of wood waiting for him at home.
That night, he went into the yard and practiced the fifth movement thirty more times.
Mặc Tuyết sat by the door with the oil lamp beside her. She did not ask why he had come home late or why his clothes were covered with more snow than usual. She only sang the familiar old song while he practiced.
On the fifth day, the snow stopped falling.
Hoàng Minh stood on the hill and gazed into the distance. The sky was gray, but for the first time he could see the horizon a little more clearly. The distant mountain peaks appeared faintly beyond the thin layer of clouds.
He thought of Hoàng Long—five days had passed since he left.
He did not ask Mặc Tuyết whether she was worried. He did not allow himself to worry either. But that night, as he sat beside the fire, he left a portion of porridge in the pot.
Just in case.
Mặc Tuyết looked at the pot of porridge, then at him, but asked nothing.
She sat down beside him, gently resting her head against his shoulder, and sang the old song—as she did every night, like a ritual known only to the two of them.
Hoàng Minh held his hands out over the fire and lightly clenched his fingers.
Five days. Five movements. Little by little.
He did not know what lay ahead, but he knew he could never return to the day before he had picked up that piece of wood.
The snow was still falling inside his heart.
But here, beside the fire, there was something warm.