The Red Snow

A storm drifts over an open snowfield. She arrives in red, a short blade at her side. He is already there. He once taught her that a sword should be fast and feelings slow. Her voice guides the duel in brief, fragile lines. We learn of a father cut down by a nameless sword. We learn of a love that chose the wrong person. Step by step, their blades circle like a quiet waltz. Each clash pulls up a memory. Each pause asks for a reason. She owes her father a spring. He gives her silence. Steel decides what words cannot. Blood touches white like falling snow. When the blade returns to its sheath, vengeance is paid and love is finished. The jianghu stays wide and cold. She walks away, a red mark fading into white.