Ashes of Our Vows

The tea house was quiet in the way a held breath is quiet. Lin Wei set the last cup on the shelf and wiped the counter until it shone. Outside, the coastal wind carried salt and distant shouting from the docks, where the war moved like a rumor you could smell.

She turned the lantern low and waited for the footsteps to pass the door—slow at first, then fast, the pattern of a patrol that liked to pretend it was just checking streets. When the sound faded, she locked the front gate and slid the bolt twice. Her hands moved like they always did, but her chest did not.

In the back room, she took out her small writing table. The paper was thin and cheap, the kind customers never noticed, and the ink bottle was wrapped in cloth to keep it from clinking. She dipped her pen and stared at the blank page until the gramophone tune appeared in her mind—soft, repeating, and wrong for comfort.