The first snowfall arrived early that year.
Yi Rong woke to the hush of white blanketing the fields, the familiar world softened beneath a layer of snow. The trees stood still and bare, their limbs outstretched like waiting hands. Beneath her fingers the windowpane was icy. She traced the frost absently, her breath fogging the glass.
"Winter's here," Ruolan said from behind her, setting down a basket of small piece of woods. Her cheeks were red from the cold, her hands chapped, "Help me wake your father up,the roof beam needs checking before the snow piles too high."
Yi Rong nodded but her thoughts wandered.
There was someone else she had to see today.
Old Wen hadn't come to the house in past few days.
His absence sat strangely in Yi Rong's chest, like a missing rhythm in a familiar song. He was a man of routine, even in his solitude. He always passed by near dusk, sometimes dropping off strange herbs with a grumble, or calling out a sarcastic, "Still not burned the house down with your experiments, girl?"
But now, silence.
By midday, she set out scarf wrapped high and a satchel of dried orange peels in hand a gift he'd once claimed helped his coughing.
The path to Old Wen's cottage was lined with frost-bitten reeds. The door was slightly ajar. Yi Rong's heart thudded.
She stepped inside slowly.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
He was lying in bed, half-covered in blankets. One hand was curled near a tray with a cup of untouched tea, long gone cold. His face was turned toward the window, eyes closed as if in sleep but she knew.
The stillness was too deep.
Yi Rong stood there for a long moment, the satchel slipping from her fingers. A bitter sting bloomed behind her eyes but she blinked it away.
She had seen death before more times than anyone in the village, even if they didn't know it. But this one struck differently. Old Wen had been gruff, critical, even mean at times but he'd taught her. Trusted her and somehow that had still felt like praise.
She crossed the room, laid a hand on his and whispered softly, "You stubborn old thing."
His skin was cold.
She lit the fire again, if only for ceremony and tidied the room. Dried herbs still hung from the rafters. On the table, next to old scrolls and a cracked bowl, sat a parchment with her name scrawled in crooked characters.
She opened it with shaking hands.
"If I've died don't be foolish and cry. Burn the rest of the honghua I labeled the jar. It's gone bad. The rest is yours. Don't sell the mountain root unless desperate and girl Yi Rong you'll do well. Just don't forget where you came from."
Her lips trembled. She folded the note carefully and tucked it into her coat.
The village mourned in its own quiet way no loud wails or ceremonial processions, only bowed heads and a heaviness that settled over the rooftops like snow. Old Wen had lived alone for so many years that most had forgotten what his voice sounded like when not giving orders or sarcastic remarks. He had no known family no wife, no children, no siblings who might journey back to honor him. There was no one left to light incense at a family shrine, no one to carve his name into polished wood with the reverence it deserved.
So as apprentice Yi Rong stepped forward, as she knew in her heart she must.
With care and a strange sense of calm, she prepared his body. Her fingers were steady, even when the breath in her chest hitched and her eyes blurred with unshed tears. She boiled water, soaked cloths and wiped the last traces of life from his face with a touch both respectful and familiar. The herbs she laid around him were chosen with purpose not for function but for memory: the calming scent of mugwort, the sharp sting of honghua, the soothing presence of sweetgrass. She had learned their properties from him, after all.
Later that afternoon, a few of the older villagers people who had once sparred with Old Wen in marketplace debates or sought his advice in desperate hours came to help. Together, they dug a resting place behind his weathered cottage, beneath the crooked plum tree that had somehow survived decades of storms.
It wasn't a grand farewell but it was real and it was enough.
Zeyu was one of them. He said little but his presence was anchoring.
When it was done, Yi Rong placed a bundle of dried herbs by the stone. She had written his name herself on the tablet with careful strokes.
The first few nights after his death, she kept waking half-expecting his voice at her door or some herbs left on the stoop but there was only snow and silence.
Days later, when she finally returned to the cottage to sort his belongings, she found a wooden chest beneath his bed.
Inside were his rarest books, a rusted knife, several jars of preserved roots and at the bottom a small embroidered pouch filled with unusually crafted coins, old and carefully wrapped as if they once meant something personal. Tucked beneath the pouch was a folded piece of parchment, the edges worn and softened with time.
Yi Rong opened it gently. The handwriting was crooked, as though written with a trembling hand.
"Girl if you're reading this, I've already kicked the bucket. Don't waste time crying there's work to be done. These coins aren't worth much anymore but they meant something once. I kept them as a reminder that not everything valuable shines.
The books here are yours now. Study them well, and add your own notes when you outgrow them. You gonna be better healer than I ever was. Just don't get arrogant.
And remember: healing people is hard,harder than letting them die but it's the right kind of hard.
Be stubborn. Be kind. Don't forget to eat."
Yi Rong held the letter for a long time, the words soaking deep into a place she hadn't realized was hollow.
She folded the note with care and tucked it against her chest. Something warm stirred under the sorrow. A quiet promise.
She would carry on.
That night, she sat with Ruolan and Zeyu around the fireplace.
She stirred the broth carefully, her voice thoughtful, "I think… we should organize the back room. Line up the ointments, dried herbs, and creams properly. It'll be easier to find things when needed."
Zeyu raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes,"Getting ready for winter?"
She smiled softly,"Yes i thought it might come in handy and easier to find stuffs."
Ruolan nodded with quiet approval, "It's a good idea. We'll help however we can."
Yi Rong looked at them their tired hands, the lines around their eyes, the quiet warmth of their presence. Old Wen was gone but others remained.
She would keep going. For him. For them.
For herself.