Snow had not stopped.
It fell in a steady, quiet line beyond the window, gathering along the edge of the road where the lantern stood.
Upstairs, Ruan opened his eyes to a room still dark and unmoving.
The inn had not yet begun to stir. Only the wind passed along the walls.
He sat up, the boards cold beneath his feet, and reached for his coat before stepping toward the window.
The hall below was dim when Ruan stepped down.
The hearth had burned low through the night, the last of the embers resting beneath a thin layer of ash.
Near the kitchen, the hammock still hung between the beams.
Boro lay curled within it, his blanket drawn close.
Ruan knelt beside the hearth and set a fresh piece of wood into place.
The log caught slowly.
Behind him, the hammock shifted.
"M-Master…?"
Ruan did not turn.
"Did I wake you up?"
Boro pushed himself upright, the blanket slipping from his shoulders.
"N-No… I-I was about to w-wake up."
Ruan adjusted the log slightly.
"Idea for breakfast?"
Boro blinked once.
His expression brightened.
"B-Barley bread… w-with milk?"
"Sure."
Boro nodded quickly and climbed down from the hammock.
He unhooked it from the beams with careful hands, folding the cloth before setting it aside near the cabinet.
Ruan rose and crossed to the line of sheets near the hearth. They had dried overnight.
He folded them one by one and placed them on the shelf beside the counter.
The fire settled into a steady burn.
Ruan stepped toward the door and lifted the latch.
Cold slipped in at once.
A narrow ridge of snow had gathered along the threshold. He pressed it aside with the edge of his boot, clearing enough space for the door to close cleanly again.
The lantern light held steady.
Ruan watched it only briefly before stepping inside.
A bowl touched the counter with a soft knock.
Boro set the bread onto a small plate and poured the milk into two cups.
Ruan took his seat without comment.
They ate in silence.
***
After a while, the light outside began to thin into morning.
Near the hearth, Boro added the last ingredient to the pot. The surface shifted, then settled into a slow simmer.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
A traveller came down.
"Does the kitchen open?" he called.
"A-Almost," Boro said.
Another set of steps followed.
The man stepped down and crossed the hall. The bell at his side gave a faint sound.
He went to the door.
Ruan watched him briefly, then took a basket from beside the kitchen door and stepped into the yard.
Snow creaked faintly beneath his boots.
Near the fence, the chickens had gathered beneath the low cover Moss had built for them. Their feathers puffed against the cold.
Ruan scattered grain across the ground.
They moved at once, scratching softly through the thin layer of snow.
Then the bell rang.
Not soft.
It carried from the road.
Ruan did not turn.
He scattered the last of the grain and turned toward the pigsty.
The snow gave a faint creak beneath his steps.
---
Boro stood near the pot, stirring with careful movements.
At the nearest table, a young traveller leaned forward slightly, hands wrapped around an empty bowl.
"Three days ago I saw it," he said.
Boro glanced up.
"S-Saw…?"
"The Soul Wanderer." The man shrugged once. "Out past the field. Near the tree line."
Boro hesitated.
"O-ouh… t-that…"
The traveller nodded, as if it needed no further explanation.
"I was hunting. You remember?"
Boro nodded quickly and reached for a ladle.
"Y-yes… I remember."
He poured the soup slowly into the bowl, careful not to spill.
"…doesn't come this way," the traveller added, almost as an afterthought.
He accepted the bowl and leaned back in his chair.
Near the window, movement drew his attention.
He tilted his head.
"Isn't that one of them?" he said, lifting his chin toward the glass. "…Soul Catcher."
Boro followed his gaze.
Outside, the man stood near the lantern.
A line lay in the snow.
The falling snow did not soften it.
Boro did not answer.
The kitchen door opened.
Cold air slipped across the floor.
Ruan stepped inside, a basket in his hand.
Snow clung lightly to the edge of his sleeve before melting into the cloth.
He set the basket near the kitchen door, then walked toward the counter.
Another traveller came down the stairs, pausing briefly at the bottom.
"O-Oyster stew?" Boro said, already reaching for another bowl.
The man nodded and took a seat.
Outside, the bell rang again.
Sharper.
The sound carried through the wood and into the room.
No one spoke.
Ruan took a sprig from the basket and slipped it between the folded sheets on the shelf behind the counter.
A faint scent settled into the cloth.
***
One by one, the travellers finished their meals and returned upstairs. Footsteps faded along the corridor, doors opening and closing in quiet succession.
The room thinned.
Only one traveller remained near the window.
He leaned back in his chair, watching the movement outside.
"Isn't he tired?" he said.
The bell stopped.
Then—
Footsteps approached the door.
Heavier this time.
The door opened.
Cold entered first.
Then the man.
Snow fell from his shoulders as he stepped inside.
For a moment, he stood where he was. His gaze moved once across the room.
Then settled nowhere.
"I need hot water."
Boro straightened at once.
"T-tea?"
"Whatever you have."
"S-soup?"
The man did not answer.
Boro nodded anyway and turned back to the hearth.
A cup was set down first.
Then a bowl.
Steam rose between them.
"This is strange," the man said.
"Even if I do the ritual…"
The bell at his side hung still now.
He lifted the cup and drank.
The man did not remain long at the table.
When the cup and bowl had emptied, he stood without a word and walked outside.
The bell sounded as he moved around the inn.
***
After a time, he returned, sat briefly near the hearth, then went upstairs.
In the kitchen, Boro rinsed the final bowl and turned it over to dry.
Ruan stepped away from the counter.
He crossed the hall. Cold slipped in as the door opened.
Snow had gathered again along the threshold.
He pushed it aside with the edge of his boot and stepped out.
Snow fell in a thinner line now.
Ruan moved to the edge of the path and began brushing the snow away from the doorway.
Then, a sound carried across the field.
Low. Brief. A howl.
Ruan straightened and looked toward the lantern.
Something stood at the edge of its light.
It did not move with the wind. Snow passed through it without settling.
Beneath it, the snow had sunk.
Not pressed.
Melted.
Not evenly.
The lantern dimmed slightly.
"…home."
The word did not carry.
The air held it.
It remained where it formed.
It did not fade at once.
Ruan exhaled, a faint mist forming in the cold, and gave a slight shake of his head.
A dark figure, its outline uneven—like branches spreading from its head. Two pale points held where its face should be.
It lingered.
Then it turned once more and slipped into the dark..
Ruan watched until it was gone.
Then he stepped back inside.
The door closed. The fire continued.
The light remained dim.
***
Night came without hurry.
The snow fell slower now.
Beyond the inn, the yard lay quiet beneath the pale weight of it.
From the path near the garden, a shape moved.
Moss stepped into the open, a lantern held low at his side.
Snow reached past his boots.
The light swayed once as he walked.
Then steadied.
He slowed near the edge of the yard.
The lantern lifted slightly, then lowered again.
He moved on.