ℭhapter 1 : The Departure from the Snow-Covered Temple
The branches twist beneath the weight of the snowflakes. The air is thick with frost, and the forest is nothing more than a squadron of clouds.
The dark, misty landscape is veiled in a dense, icy haze. Night has fallen-the sky reigns, draped in its enchanting milky shroud.
Yet, through the woods and tangled thickets, another enchanter prevails: a sound. A melody, both deep and fleetingly high, played on a piano. A song without words, its notes resonating in an echo...
Deeper into the undergrowth, the silhouette of a woman emerges. Her pale fingers, their tips kissed by the cold, dance a silent ballet over the snow-dusted keys. She and the grand piano, gleaming in elegant black, have become one.
The wind mirrors her crescendos with playful twirls and softens as the music quiets. Her hair is partially gathered into two braids, cascading over her shoulders.
Her eyes are almond-shaped, a warm shade of hazel. Yet their radiance is dulled by deep shadows-evidence of long, weary nights.
Those dark circles encase her pupils, silently screaming an exhausting truth. She looks regal, yet drained; nostalgic, yet tinged with love.
Her fair skin is pure, yet trembles beneath an invisible weight. Gusts of wind send blue and green feathers dancing, their hues shimmering in turquoise shadows. They adorn her ebony-colored top hat.
A moment later, the melody fades, giving way to the whisper of the wind weaving through the corridors of leaves.
“It’s time, isn’t it?”
Her voice is graceful, though huskier than most women’s. She rises-the snow resting upon her body falls like gentle rain to the ground.
Closing the lid of the instrument, she steps away, vanishing into the frost-laced forest. Her silhouette dissolves into the snowfall, swallowed by the woods.
. . .
Her footsteps sink softly into the snow; the long walk does not seem to weary her. At last, she arrives at her destination. Night has fully settled.
Before her stands a temple, nestled deep in these frozen lands. Aged wooden beams barely uphold the roof, while straw-draped windows conceal the interior from view.
It is an ancient structure, yet it retains its grandeur-especially beneath the celestial darkness.
“I’m home.”
The words fall into the silence, spoken as if to the temple itself. The woman removes her shoes and steps onto the first stair.The wooden planks creak beneath her weight, and she ascends into the dim interior.
A short moment passes before a faint glow flickers into sight. Candle flames waver, casting fleeting light across the room.
Her breath unfurls in the cold air, visible as a wispy gray mist. Yet, she remains content in the warmth of her velvet coat.
She prepares a pot of boiling water and drinks her tea in quiet relief.
Her body sinks onto a futon, and her eyes begin to close- when suddenly, a knock resounds against the wooden door.
Behind her, a luminous aura appears-then abruptly, it shifts into the form of a large, jet-black sword.
With steady precision, her right hand grasps the hilt and positions it behind her back, assuming a defensive stance.
Yet, she remains composed as she moves toward the entrance.
- “Who’s there?”
At once, a young man’s voice answers:
- “General Hamako! Forgive my untimely and unannounced arrival. I am Simon Boale, messenger of Commander Arlo, at your service!”
Without hesitation, Hamako opens the door, now facing the young man. Standing in the snow that nearly reaches his knees, he appears frail and thin.
Yet, his soldier’s uniform and astonished expression betray a remarkable resilience. His lips tremble from the cold, but he salutes her with proper military form.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a letter.
- Simon:“General, I was meant to deliver this letter this afternoon. I have failed my mission.”
It is clear that he refuses to blame the relentless ice storm that raged throughout the day, choosing instead to bear the fault himself.
His eyes reflect profound admiration-perhaps even reverence-for the woman before him.
She accepts the document without so much as a flicker of her long lashes.
- “My home is difficult to reach. Thank you, Mr. Boale, for making the journey here.”
With each word, Simon’s smile grows brighter.
- Simon:“I must return before sunrise. I’ll take my leave now, General. Good evening.”
- “Likewise, Mr. Boale.”
As she watches the messenger disappear into the icy night, Hamako quickly removes her fur-lined cloak and steps after him.
She gently drapes the velvet mantle over his shivering shoulders.
- “Take this. May your return be more pleasant than your journey here.”
Simon, his cheeks reddened-whether from the cold or sheer embarrassment-instantly protests.
But in the end, he has no choice but to accept.
.
He glances back one last time. The temple is now nothing more than a distant dot on the horizon.
“I have a cloak from General Hamako....!”
Grinning, he continues his trek through the snow, practically skipping as he vanishes into the night.
.
Meanwhile, Hamako’s sword dissolves into tiny specks of light. Her tension eases, and she lets go of her guarded stance. Her gaze shifts to the letter in her hand.
Indifferently, she reads its contents before folding it and tucking it away. Once more, she lies down, determined to find sleep.
A faint smile graces her lips before she drifts into the world of dreams.
A soft ray of light falls upon the General’s closed eyes. Morning has entered the room.
She sits up, her hands instinctively reaching for her throat-it is red and swollen.
“A cold night, perhaps?”she muses.
Her words are accompanied by a gentle chuckle, as she recalls the young messenger.
Then, memories of the previous evening resurface, and she remembers the letter.
Now fully awake, the woman exhales a sigh.
She wipes the dampness from her forehead and rubs her hands together in satisfaction.
“My bags are packed!... Hmm, where are the keys? Ah! Here.
Just one last check to be sure I have everything...”
Her eyes sweep across the temple’s rooms, each adorned with luxurious, colorful fabrics. The silk draperies restore the grandeur of the old dwelling. Sliding the entrance door closed, she locks it with a silver key.
Her boots press into the melting snow as she stops before the temple one last time.
"My dear, I must go.
I don’t know when I will return, so I forbid you to succumb to time.
Do not crack beneath the winter frost nor the summer heat."
Once again, her words receive no reply-they are spoken only for her own conscience.
The morning dew perfumes the air, and crimson-berried trees tint the snow-covered landscape.
The General wears a top hat, a tailored coat lined with wool, and carries a leather suitcase.
She follows the path of the messenger, leaving behind her snow-covered lands.
Picture reference : https://unsplash.com/fr/photos/un-grand-batiment-entoure-darbres-couverts-de-neige-0wgGEy6tK7k
