He Forced Me to Kowtow 10,000 Times on the Snowy Mountain Chapter 09

He Forced Me to Kowtow 10,000 Times on the Snowy Mountain Chapter 09

I never headed back to Newport.

I stayed up in the valley, helping Soren log rescue missions and run the youth shelter’s daily

operations.

Time moved slow.

I cooked breakfast for the kids each morning, taught them to read mid-morning, sorted the resque

team’s supply ledgers in the afternoons, and stopped by the chapel at dusk to top off the prayer

candles for Rian.

I learned to eat regular meals and sleep on a steady schedule again.

Thick calluses covered the old gashes on my knees, they no longer oozed blood. The frost cracks across my palms healed over, leaving only faint pale scars.

I started laughing again.

Not the stiff, forced smile I’d worn just to ease other people’s worries.

Real laughter now-amused by the children’s silly antics, softened by warm mugs of spiced ciders, and glad to rise early for the mountain’s sunrise each morning.

That first winter, a truck hauled three full loads of supplies to the shelter. Winter coats, propane canisters for heating, medicine, sacks of rice and flour.

The shelter director brought me the delivery slip.

“Rynne, should we draft a thank-you letter?”

I glanced at the sender line-blank, anonymous.

“No need. Just write a receipt.”

Only one plain sentence marked on the paper: Supplies received in full.

No mention of Mr. Thorne, no words of gratitude for his kindness.

The following spring, the rough mountain road leading to the rescue station was paved.

It used to be a rutted gravel track that washed out in rain and trapped tires under ice through winter. The new asphalt stretch ran smooth, lined with guardrails on both sides.

I walked this road every day to the station, sorting files alongside Soren.

One small child tugged at my sleeve. “Aunt Rynne, who built this nice road?”

“I don’t know.”

“It was terrible before. I fell three times on the old path.”

“Yeah, this one’s much easier to walk on.”

I never asked who’d funded the construction.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t guess. I chose not to know.

To acknowledge it would mean owing him something, and debts only tie people together. I didn’ want any more ties to anyone, not anymore.

By the third year, Zane and a handful of the wealthy young scions showed up at the shelter gates. They wore worn outdoor gear, sunburnt and covered in dust.

The director paced anxiously. “Rynne, they said they’re here to volunteer, and they brought piles of supplies.”

I stepped outside to meet them.

Zane’s expression turned awkward the second he spotted me.

“Uh… Hale sent us. He said we owed you for the betting pool mess up on the mountain three years back. We’re here to make it right.”

I looked over their worn, ragged group of seven or eight guys. “Just don’t scare the children.”

They stayed at the shelter for a full month.

Hauling propane canisters, patching cracked walls, unclogging drains, cooking meals for the children. Zane burned three pots of oatmeal, and four-year-old Wren teased him nonstop for the

whole day.

When it was time for them to leave, Zane lingered by the gate, rubbing his palms together

nervously.

“Miss Vey… I’m sorry for all the cruel things we said back then.”

I nodded once. “It’s fine. You can go now.”

He parted his lips like he wanted to say more, then fell silent and climbed into their vehicle.

The fourth year, a brand-new strand of rosary beads appeared beside the crucifix inside the chapel.

I spotted it when I came to refill the candle racks. The beads were strung neatly, brand new, but the knot tying the ends was clumsy and uneven-clearly not tied by anyone used to working with cord.

I hung it on a brass hook beside the crucifix and left it there, untouched.

Every year, parcels arrived out of nowhere, quietly left on the edges of my quiet life.

I accepted them, but never sent a single reply.

It wasn’t to punish anyone. I truly didn’t need any of it anymore.

Autumn of the fifth year, I hung laundry out to dry by the station entrance.

A figure stood far down the gravel trail.

I squinted to make out his face.

It was Hale.

He’d wasted away drastically, bright sunburned red patches streaked across his cheeks. The frayed old cord bracelet wrapped around his wrist, its tattered ends tucked under his sleeve cuff.

He didn’t move closer. We stood fifty yards apart.

I wrung out the last sheet and draped it over the clothesline.

He lingered there for a long time before his voice carried across the wind.

“You’re still wearing that one?”

His eyes fixed on my faded shell jacket-the one Rian gave me. It’d been patched up countless times, but it still held strong.

“Yes. I fixed it up.”

He stood silent for a minute as the sheets whipped loud in the mountain wind.

“What about us?”

I glanced over at him.

No hatred, no lingering resentment. Nothing at all.

“People aren’t old jackets. You can’t sew us back together.”

He stood frozen on the gravel path, his whole body trembling.

Behind me, the shelter’s wooden door creaked open. Wren came darting out and slipped her small

hand into mine.

“Aunt Rynne, who’s making dinner today?”

“I am. What would you like to eat?”

“Hand-cut noodle soup!”

She tugged me toward the shelter entrance.

As I passed the outdoor supply crate by the door, I caught sight of that same frayed cord bracelet tucked inside. I’d asked Soren to put it there weeks prior.

A crumpled drawing made by one of the kids was taped to the lid: Old climbing rope-for training

demonstrations only, not for rescue use.