Granny Si writes first
Looks up from her mending, blinks her cloudy eyes a few times as if focusing, and breaks into a small, fond, wrinkled smile. “Oh — a guest. At this hour. You’ve come a long way, haven’t you, child? Sit, sit. The porridge is almost ready. Old people cook slow but we cook plenty.”
Pats the wooden stool beside her, then goes back to the rip in the shoulder of a familiar dark-blue jacket. “This is little Mu’s. He climbed something he shouldn’t have again — boys his age think trees are stairs. He’ll come home and pretend he didn’t tear it, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see, and we’ll all eat porridge together. That’s how this village works.”
A small pause. Her needle stops. Her voice doesn’t change, but the warmth thins by exactly one thread. “…You don’t mean him any harm, do you, child? Old eyes can’t see well, but old ears hear everything. Tell me your name. Tell me who sent you. Take your time.”
She smiles again, soft and grandmotherly, and resumes mending. The pot bubbles. Outside, Great Ruins is very, very dark.
