Lia stepped through the snow that reached her ankles, her little leather boots making soft crunching sounds on the snowy ground.
Her wide-brimmed black hat was pulled low, covering most of her face, but it couldn't hide the pair of bright blue eyes beneath the brim—like two pools of freshly thawed spring water, curiously taking in everything on the street.
A few strands of golden curls escaped from under the hat, dotted with fine snowflakes, as if sprinkled with powdered sugar.
In her left hand, she tightly clutched a leather-bound notebook with a faded rose printed on the cover;
In her right hand, she held a silver fountain pen, its nib occasionally scratching across the paper, leaving a soft rustling sound.
Though still young and not fully grown, wrapped in a thick camel-colored cloak like a round little bear, her serious demeanor gave her a somewhat grown-up air, looking especially adorable.
The snow on the street fell unhurriedly, large flakes drifting down slowly, landing on rooftops, treetops, and also on Lia's hat brim, accumulating a thin layer of white.
She stopped walking, looked up at the sky, and snowflakes landed on her eyelashes, cool and tingling, but she didn't even blink until she could see the shape of the snowflakes clearly, then lowered her head and quickly began writing in her notebook with the pen.
"A certain year, a certain month, a certain day."
She first wrote the date, her handwriting delicate and neat, with a childlike innocence, yet each stroke was exceptionally tidy.
After writing, she paused again and looked up toward the street corner—Lia saw several Soldiers in the distance.
Soldiers in armor carried a stretcher around the corner, the Old Beggar on it curled up into a ball, lips purple from the cold, without even the strength to moan.
The Soldiers' movements weren't particularly gentle, the metal stretcher clanging against the cobblestone road, but unlike before, no one cursed "filth" or "roadblock" as they walked.
The Soldier walking on the outermost side suddenly stopped, took off his thick gloves from his wrist—the gloves looked very warm, with plush wool lining.
He bent down and gently placed the gloves over the Old Beggar's hands, frozen like withered branches, his movements a bit clumsy but exceptionally earnest.
"Hurry up, or the hot porridge at the Relief Station will get cold."
Another Soldier urged, his tone not impatient, more like reminding a companion.
"Got it."
The Soldier with the gloves responded, and when he straightened up, the back of his hand was already red from the cold, but he didn't mind, continuing to walk with the group.
She looked down at the notebook in her arms, her fingertips lightly tracing the cover, suddenly feeling that this winter didn't seem so cold anymore.
Snow fell on her hat brim, rustling softly, as if applauding the scene just witnessed.
Lia's pen paused, then continued writing: "The evil Soldiers are all dead."
After writing this, she suddenly remembered the scene from three days ago—those Soldiers in shiny armor were still whipping people on the street, stealing vendors' carts, and extorting passersby with curses.
But now, their shadows were gone, replaced by these people in armor, with tired faces but gentle eyes.
She walked a few more steps forward and saw a temporary Porridge Station set up in the town Square, where several officials in government uniforms were busy serving porridge to the queuing citizens.
One of them, a bearded official with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing sturdy forearms, was clumsily feeding porridge to a Child, porridge grains smeared all over his face, yet he smiled gently.
In the past, officials would only sit in carriages, using whips to drive away beggars blocking the road.
Lia lowered her head, her pen scratching across the paper: "Government Officials are providing relief to starving people on the street."
The wind swept snowflakes past, and she shrank her neck, wrapping her cloak tighter.
As she turned, she caught sight of two Soldiers with long knives capturing a Local Ruffian who had stolen bread; the Local Ruffian was still struggling and cursing, but the Soldiers didn't resort to violence as before, just sternly reprimanded him and led him toward the Security Office. Passing by a Child who had dropped a toy, one of the Soldiers bent down to pick up the doll for the Child.
Lia's eyes brightened, her pen dancing across the paper: "Righteous Soldiers patrol, kill Local Ruffians and Ruffians, protect people."
After writing this, she hesitated again, drawing a small question mark next to the words "kill."
That Soldier just now didn't kill anyone, only arrested the Local Ruffian.
Perhaps "arrest" is more appropriate?
But after thinking, she didn't change it—in her heart, these Soldiers protecting the people must be powerful against bad guys, and "kill" better reflects their righteousness.
The handwriting in the notebook grew denser, like planting a row of tiny seeds in the snow.
Lia closed the notebook, tucked the pen back into her cloak buttonhole, and looked into the distance—the sun was peeking out from the clouds, casting a golden glow on the snowy ground and illuminating the flowers on the windowsills along the street; though their petals were still dotted with snow, they bloomed stubbornly and brightly.
She then stood on tiptoe, tightly hugging the notebook to her chest, the rose pattern on the cover pressed against her heart, as if holding a burning star.
Her little leather boots made cheerful crunching sounds on the snowy ground as she skipped all the way toward the Palace—she wanted to tell him everything she had seen these days, tell him that the bad Soldiers were gone, tell him that people could finally drink hot porridge.
"Must write all this down to show Little Ge."
She tilted her little face, muttering softly, her exhaled breath forming small puffs in the cold air that quickly dissipated.
Her golden curls swayed under the hat brim, the snowflakes on them melted by body heat, leaving glistening droplets on the ends.
However, just as she reached the street corner, a sudden, urgent cry, like a stepped-on cat, pierced her ears sharply.
"Lia! Lia, save me!"
The voice was sharp and trembling, thick with sobs, each word sounding as if rubbed with sandpaper, sending shivers down the spine.
Lia was counting footprints in the snow when she heard it and abruptly stopped, her little leather shoes skidding half an inch on the snowy ground.
She turned her head in confusion—at the mouth of an alley not far away, the Orphanage Director, who always glared with triangular eyes, was being dragged out by two Soldiers in armor holding his arms.
He was as fat as a round pig, his usually protruding belly now shriveled into a ball, his fat trembling like a sieve as he struggled; the gold chain around his neck was already askew, the clasp scraping against his greasy, sweaty face, mixed with snow and mud, making his fine silk-padded jacket look like a dirty rag.
"Father"—the orphans were forced by him with a cane to call him that, but everyone knew in their hearts that this man was rotten to the core, his black heart darker than ink.
He mixed sand into the thin porridge he gave the children, with a few moldy grains of rice settled at the bottom, yet secretly sold the white rice donated by townsfolk on the Black Market to buy cigars and strong liquor;
In the harsh winter, he made the children wear short-sleeved clothes with exposed elbows to beg on the streets, their lips purple from the cold, while he himself wrapped in a mink coat, sat in front of the fireplace with legs crossed, blowing smoke rings and counting copper coins.
Lia's fingertips tightened sharply, digging deep into the leather cover of the notebook, leaving several crescent-shaped white marks, her knuckles turning pale.
The memory of being whipped with the cane was like ice frozen in her bones, hidden deep within, now drawn out by this cry, carrying a piercing pain that spread through her veins to every limb.
She remembered the wind that day was just as cold, like little knives scraping her face.
The thin clothes did nothing to block the chill, making her teeth chatter uncontrollably.
She stood at the street corner clutching that box of matches for three hours, from when the sun began to set until the moon climbed onto the eaves. Her voice grew hoarse, unable to cry out 'Buy a match,' and her hands and feet grew numb from the cold, like two blocks of ice hanging from her body.
In her pocket lay only three crumpled copper coins—given to her by an old woman who took pity on her, forcing them into her hand.
Unable to hold on any longer, she dragged her leaden legs back, each step feeling like walking on knife points.
Just as she reached the Orphanage gate, she was intercepted by the Director waiting there.
He snatched the matchbox from her arms, not even glancing at her frostbitten, purple face, and backhanded her with a slap. The crisp 'crack' made her vision darken, blood immediately beading at the corner of her mouth, mixing with tears as it dripped down.
'Useless thing!'
The Director's curses mixed with the wind and snow, piercing her ears like ice picks.
'Can't even earn ten copper coins—what use are you!'
He turned and grabbed the rattan cane behind the door, its surface still covered in dry, hard thorns.
Lia shrank back in fear, but he kicked her in the knee, sending her 'thudding' to the ground.
The cane'swished' across her back, its thorns instantly tearing through the thin fabric. A searing pain exploded along her spine.
Again and again, she felt as if thrown into an ice cellar—her whole body cold, yet sweating from the pain. Red welts quickly swelled on her back, oozing beads of blood.
She gritted her teeth, not daring to cry out, biting her lips hard, afraid that sobbing would bring heavier blows.
She could only lower her head, staring intently at the snow on the ground, watching the pure white flakes land on the blood droplets she shed, instantly melting into small, eerie red puddles, soon covered by fresh snow.
'Remember!'
The Director gave her one last kick, sending her sprawling on the ground.
'If you don't sell enough next time, I'll sell you to the brothel!'
Lia suddenly snapped back to reality. The snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes had melted, icy droplets sliding down her cheeks to her chin.
She looked down at the notebook. A small damp spot had seeped into the paper at some point—tears had wet it.
The white marks on her fingertips had turned red. She quickly let go, wiping the paper haphazardly with her sleeve, smudging the damp spots into faint gray marks.
'Lia! Good Child! Plead with the Soldier for me!'
The fat Director was still struggling, held by the arms by the Soldier like a pig awaiting slaughter. His triangular eyes squeezed into slits, squeezing out a few murky tears that rolled down his oily, shiny cheeks.
'I know I was wrong! I'll give you white porridge from now on, let you wear cotton jackets...'
Lia pursed her lips tightly, not even lifting an eyelid, as if she hadn't heard.
She watched as the Soldier dragged the fat Director toward the Security Office. The man's boots left two crooked trails in the snow, like a dying caterpillar, leaving ugly marks on the pure white ground.
Only when their figures completely disappeared at the alley's mouth did Lia slowly raise her head. Facing the empty alley, she playfully wrinkled her nose and made a big face—sticking her tongue out so far it almost touched her nose, eyes squinting into two crescent moons. She hid all the grievances, beatings, and frozen nights of these years in that face, silently venting at the vanished back.
Snow fell on the brim of her hat, light and gentle, as if someone had patted her head with a fingertip, carrying a hint of comfort.
Lia quickly put away the face, sniffed, and swallowed all the unspoken grievances and the rising lump in her throat.
She hugged the notebook tighter against her chest. The leather cover pressed against her, like holding a little secret that could grow warm.
As she turned to continue toward the Palace, the sound of her little leather shoes on the snow grew a bit lighter.
The sunlight seemed to brighten a little, rays slanting out from the clouds onto the snow, reflecting a dazzling white that made eyes ache, yet carrying a warm, cozy heat that drove some of the chill from her cloak.
After just two steps, Lia suddenly 'ah'-ed, as if remembering something important.
She quickly stopped, pulled the notebook and pen from her cloak pocket, and crouched in the snow to write hurriedly.
The wide black brim of her hat drooped down, like a little tent over her, hiding her earnest little face.
The pen tip scratched across the paper with a soft 'rustle,' as if whispering to the snowflakes.
After writing just a couple of lines, she suddenly wanted to see what she'd written before, so she carefully opened the notebook.
The edges of the pages were slightly curled, marks from being soaked by snowmelt.
As soon as she flipped to the first page, a line of childish yet earnest handwriting immediately caught her eye:
'I lit a match, and he appeared.'
Seeing this line, Lia's little face flushed 'whoosh,' as if roasted by a fireplace fire, even her earlobes and neck turning pink.
Only then did she remember that on that freezing night, dazed yet unusually clear-headed, she hadn't just written this one line—it was followed by half an unfinished love poem.
She silently recited those words in her heart, like holding a piece of candy afraid to melt:
'I lit a match, and he appeared.
Like light crashing through the cold mist, splitting the sky full of frost.
He came carrying the wind of an old century,
The hem of his clothes adorned with scattered moonlight,
His palm cradling a brightness that never extinguishes,
Like the gentle heavenly light reserved just for me
Behind the glorious stained glass of a church.'
Those lines were ones she'd secretly learned after hearing Bards in the Capital recite them.
At the time, she just felt she had so much to say, like a pond filled to the brim, about to overflow if not written down.
But now, thinking back, her cheeks felt hot enough to fry an egg.
'Swish—' Lia abruptly closed the notebook, the motion so hasty she nearly tore the pages.
She hugged the book tightly against her chest, elbows pressed to her chest, as if afraid the wind might hear or the snow see.
She quickly stood up, brushed the snow from her skirt, her little leather shoes grinding in place, but her steps weren't as light as before.
Instead, they carried a bit of a young girl's fluster, walking a few steps then couldn't help glancing back, as if afraid someone might chase her to peek at her notebook.
Under the hat brim, her blue eyes held half the excitement of expecting to see Gwof, half the shyness of hiding a secret, like holding a frantically thumping little rabbit.
Snow still fell, large flakes drifting down slowly, landing on her hat brim and cloak, like sprinkling sweet powdered sugar.
Lia raised a hand to touch her flushed cheek, her fingertips tinged with warmth.
She secretly thought: When she sees Little Ge, she absolutely mustn't let him flip to this page.
Otherwise... otherwise she'd probably be so embarrassed she'd burrow into the snow and never dare come out again.
The Palace's spire was now visible, gleaming faintly gold in the snowy light.
Lia took a deep breath, tucked the notebook further into her cloak, and quickened her pace forward.
The wind seemed to carry a sweet scent—perhaps the snow knew her secret and was blushing for her.