Spring painted Japan in colors of rebirth, yet the Sakamori estate stood like a fading ghost of its former glory. The once-grand mansion, with its lacquered halls and manicured gardens, now carried an air of decay. Cracks crept across the papered walls; the scent of old wood and forgotten incense lingered in the stillness.

Inside, silence was broken only by the distant chirping of sparrows and the labored breathing of a man who once commanded respect across Kyoto’s business circles.

Hana knelt on the tatami floor beside her father’s futon. Her slender hands trembled slightly as she wrung a towel, dipping it in a basin of warm water. The years had not been kind to him. His once-powerful shoulders now sagged, bones jutting under papery skin. Each breath seemed a battle.

“Otou-sama,” Hana whispered gently, her voice softer than the shoji screens filtering the morning sun. “It’s time for your medicine.”

She slipped an arm beneath his neck, lifting his head with practiced care. He opened his eyes, dull but warm, and for a fleeting moment, the old pride flickered in them.

“Hana…” His voice was hoarse, barely a shadow of its old strength. “…my good girl. Always… caring.”

“Don’t speak too much,” she murmured, pressing the porcelain cup to his lips. “You need your strength.”

He obeyed with effort, sipping the bitter liquid. When she laid him back down, smoothing the quilt over his frail body, Hana bit the inside of her cheek to hold back tears. The world beyond these walls was moving on—factories rising from ashes, trains roaring with progress—but here, time had stopped.

The sharp click of geta sandals broke her reverie. From the hallway drifted a different kind of life: laughter, bright and careless like wind chimes in summer.

Hana turned just as Ayame appeared in the doorway. Her stepsister, only two years younger, was a vision of the new Japan—Western dress of pale blue satin hugging her figure, scarlet lips curved into a knowing smile. Her hair, styled in soft curls, framed a face too beautiful to be innocent.

“Still playing nurse, Hana?” Ayame’s voice dripped with amusement. “How… noble of you.”

Hana lowered her gaze, letting the insult glide past her like a cold wind. Ayame loved this game—the perfect daughter, adored and admired, while Hana remained the shadow, clinging to duties no one praised.

Before Hana could answer, another presence filled the room. Chiyo. Her stepmother glided in, her silk kimono whispering wealth that was long gone. A single jade comb pinned her hair, gleaming like her eyes—sharp, calculating, unyielding.

“Hana,” Chiyo said, her tone sweet yet commanding. “Come to the drawing room. We have matters to discuss.”

Hana’s stomach tightened. She glanced once at her father, whose weak fingers twitched as if to stop her. Then she rose silently, following Chiyo and Ayame down the hall.

---

The Drawing Room

Sunlight slanted across the tatami, catching the golden threads of the worn cushions where Chiyo settled like an empress on her throne. Ayame lounged beside her, laughter still curling at her lips. Hana knelt across from them, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

“You know the truth, Hana,” Chiyo began, voice smooth as lacquered wood. “This family… is drowning.”

Hana’s heart clenched. She had known it for months—the debts whispered about by servants, the bills hidden under trays of tea. But hearing it aloud was like a blade pressing against her ribs.

“I… I will do anything for the family,” she said softly.

Chiyo’s smile deepened, though it held no warmth. “Good. Because there is a way to survive. Two ways, in fact.”

Hana raised her head slightly, her brows knitting. “Two ways?”

“One daughter will marry wealth.” Chiyo’s gaze flicked to Ayame, who preened like a cat under praise. “The other will marry power.”

The words settled in the room like falling ash. Ayame’s eyes sparkled, lips curling in triumph.

“Mama means Haruto-san, right?” Ayame said lightly. “Takeda Haruto?”

Hana’s breath hitched. Haruto. His name was a secret melody in her heart—a childhood friend who once walked with her beneath blooming cherry trees, who spoke of futures filled with dreams and laughter.

“Haruto…” she whispered before she could stop herself.

Ayame’s laugh rang like a bell. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, dear sister. Of course, I’ll marry him. I’m far more suited for the role, don’t you think?”

Hana’s lips trembled, but Chiyo’s voice cut clean through her silence.

“And you, Hana… there is another suitor. A man of great influence.”

The unease in Hana’s chest swelled like a storm tide. “…Who?”

Chiyo’s eyes glinted with something darker than triumph as she spoke the name like a verdict:

“General Kuroda Renji.”

The air seemed to vanish. Hana’s heart thudded in her ears. Whispers of the man spilled into her mind—stories told in hushed voices: the beast of the battlefield, a ruthless war hero with hands stained in blood.

“The… the Cruel General?” Her voice broke on the last word.

Ayame gave a mock gasp, then smirked. “How thrilling! A monster for a husband. Poor Hana…”

Her laughter was silver-bright, cutting Hana deeper than any blade.

“This is our only chance,” Chiyo said coldly. “You will not refuse. For the sake of the Sakamori name.”

The room spun. Beyond the shoji screens, the sunset bled crimson across the sky, the color of endings. Hana bowed her head, her tears falling unseen into her lap.

“For the family,” she whispered to herself, “I will endure anything.”

Chiyo rose, her shadow stretching long against the fading light. Her words rang like an iron bell, sealing Hana’s fate:

“One daughter will marry wealth. The other will marry power… for our survival.”

Outside, the cherry blossoms drifted soundlessly to the ground—fragile petals, surrendering to the wind.

---

The rain had cleared overnight, leaving the garden wrapped in the tender light of morning. Dew clung to the blades of grass like beads of crystal, and the cherry blossoms hung heavy, their petals trembling in the breeze. Hana stood by the engawa, gazing out at the pink rain of petals that swirled gently to the earth.

Her thoughts were a restless tide. The words from last night haunted her—General Kuroda Renji. The name was a weight pressing against her chest. She had heard the rumors since she was a girl: the ruthless commander who crushed enemies without mercy, whose eyes were colder than steel. Was this to be her fate?

Yet, beneath the storm in her mind, a fragile hope lingered. A name she had cherished in silence for years—Takeda Haruto.

Memories of childhood floated before her eyes: running along temple paths, laughter echoing beneath cherry blossoms, promises whispered in the shade of ancient trees. Haruto had always been the gentle one, a boy who dreamed of peace while the world drowned in war.

If anyone could save her… it was him.

A faint rumble of wheels reached her ears. Hana turned—and her breath caught.

A sleek black car rolled through the gates. From it stepped a man dressed in an elegant gray suit, his hair swept neatly back, his posture straight and confident. Haruto.

For a moment, time folded back. He was no longer the boy chasing fireflies with her in the garden—he was a man now, tall, handsome, his presence commanding in a way that still carried the softness she remembered.

“Hana,” he called, his voice warm, like sunlight after a long winter.

Her lips parted in a smile she had not worn in months. “Haruto… you came.”

---

They walked together through the garden, where the air smelled of wet earth and blooming camellias. For a time, the world seemed distant—the debts, the whispers, the cruel arrangement Chiyo had spoken of. Here, there was only him.

“You’ve grown,” Haruto said, glancing at her with a smile that crinkled his eyes. “But you still love this garden, don’t you? It hasn’t changed.”

“It’s all I have left that feels… alive,” Hana replied softly. Her voice trembled before she could steady it.

He slowed his steps, his hand brushing a branch heavy with blossoms. “You’ve been carrying so much, haven’t you?”

Her throat tightened. He saw her—the weight of duty she bore in silence, the sorrow she hid even from herself.

“Hana,” he murmured, turning to face her fully. “If things were different…”

She looked up, heart pounding. The words hovered like a promise in the spring air. If things were different… if he asked, would she run away with him? Would she choose love over duty?

But before the thought could bloom, a shadow fell across the path.

---

Chiyo stood at the veranda, her eyes glinting beneath delicately drawn brows. Ayame lingered at her side, lips painted in a smile that never reached her eyes.

“My, my,” Chiyo said sweetly, though her voice cut like silk over steel. “What a pleasant surprise, Haruto-san. You honor our home.”

Haruto straightened at once, bowing politely. “It is always a pleasure, Madam Sakamori.”

Hana stepped back, the warmth of the moment dissolving under the cold light of her stepmother’s gaze.

“Please,” Chiyo continued, her tone smooth, “won’t you join us for tea? Ayame has been waiting to see you.”

Her words curled like smoke, leaving no room for refusal.

Haruto hesitated—a flicker of something crossed his face, regret perhaps—but then he smiled politely and followed Chiyo toward the drawing room.

Hana remained in the garden, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white against the pale silk of her sleeves.

---

Inside the Drawing Room

The clink of porcelain, the hum of polite laughter, the faint scent of imported tea leaves—Hana could hear it all as she lingered by the door, unseen. Ayame’s laughter rang bright, like the chime of a bell, as Haruto complimented her grace.

“You’ve truly embraced the modern world, Ayame-san,” Haruto said, his tone cordial. “Your dress suits you.”

Ayame lowered her lashes coyly. “You think so? Haruto-san, you flatter me.”

Hana’s chest ached. Each word was a needle, stitching up the fragile dream she had dared to hold. She turned away before the tears could fall, her steps light and soundless on the tatami.

---

Behind her, in the warmth of the drawing room, Chiyo leaned toward her daughter, her lips curling in a smile sharp enough to cut.

“He will be yours,” she whispered against the rim of her teacup, her voice low, venom wrapped in silk.

Ayame’s eyes glittered like polished obsidian. “Of course, Mother.”

Chiyo’s smile deepened, cold and certain.

“Watch how I do it.”

---

Outside, in the garden of falling blossoms, Hana pressed her hands against her chest, as if to hold together a heart that was already beginning to break.

The sun dipped low, spilling gold over the rooftops of Kyoto as the Sakamori estate stirred with unusual life. Servants moved briskly, carrying lacquered trays and polishing porcelain cups until they gleamed. The faint aroma of freshly brewed tea floated through the corridors, mingling with the perfume of spring blossoms arranged in elegant vases.

Chiyo stood at the center of it all, her kimono a river of crimson silk embroidered with golden cranes. Her hair was coiled high, her jade hairpin glinting under the lamplight. Every movement, every smile was calculated—an illusion of grace masking the sharpness beneath.

“Hana,” she called without turning, her tone like the ring of a temple bell—soft, yet unyielding.

“Yes, Mother.”

Hana approached, bowing her head. She wore a simple kimono of pale lavender, her hair drawn back with modest restraint. The faint dusting of powder on her cheeks could not hide the hollowness in her eyes, the weariness that clung to her like a shadow.

“You will serve tea tonight,” Chiyo instructed, her voice cool and even. “And nothing more.”

Hana’s lips parted, a protest trembling on her tongue, but she swallowed it down. She lowered her gaze instead. “Yes, Mother.”

Chiyo smiled, a curve of satisfaction that never reached her eyes.

---

By the time the guests arrived, twilight had settled, painting the sky in hues of violet and rose. The soft strains of shamisen music drifted from a corner, played by a hired musician to lend the evening a note of refinement.

Haruto entered first, tall and striking in his Western suit of charcoal gray. The lamplight caught the smooth sweep of his hair, the quiet strength in his posture. Hana’s heart clenched at the sight, her breath catching like silk on a thorn.

Behind him came his parents—Mr. Takeda, dignified in a dark haori, and his wife, a woman of elegant bearing with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

“Welcome,” Chiyo said, her voice warm honey as she bowed gracefully. “It is an honor to have the Takeda family in our humble home.”

“The honor is ours,” Mrs. Takeda replied, though her tone carried the cool weight of judgment. Her eyes flicked over the room, assessing every detail—the fading screens, the worn tatami edges—and then landed on Ayame.

And Ayame did not disappoint.

She glided forward like a butterfly on spring wind, her Western gown a cascade of pale pink satin that shimmered softly in the lamplight. A string of pearls kissed the hollow of her throat; her lips glowed the color of camellias in bloom. When she smiled, it was a work of art—demure yet dazzling, as if the world bent toward her light.

“Mrs. Takeda,” Ayame murmured, her voice sweet as ripened fruit. “What a pleasure to meet you. Your kimono… such exquisite taste. It suits you perfectly.”

The older woman’s expression softened, a faint smile curving her lips. Praise, Chiyo knew, was the key to every door.

---

Hana knelt quietly by the low table, her hands steady as she poured steaming tea into porcelain cups painted with cranes. Her sleeves trailed like whispers across the tatami, her movements graceful yet invisible.

Every laugh from Ayame was a blade slicing through her composure. Every glance Haruto gave—to Ayame, to her mother—was another wound she could not staunch.

Still, she did not falter. She served with the quiet dignity her father had taught her, even as humiliation burned through her like fire.

---

A Dance of Seduction

The conversation flowed like sake—smooth, intoxicating. Ayame spoke of music, of fashion, of the Western films she adored. She laughed softly at Haruto’s every remark, her hand brushing his sleeve in feigned innocence as she leaned closer.

Haruto… Haruto did not push her away. His smile was polite, his voice warm as he replied, yet in his eyes—Hana saw it, a flicker of conflict, a shadow of something unspoken.

Once, just once, his gaze lifted across the table and met Hana’s. The world stilled, a breath suspended in time. Her heart leapt—and then fell, shattering—when he looked away, as though the sight of her brought him pain.

---

When the last of the tea had been poured and the evening stretched like a silken thread ready to snap, Chiyo struck.

“Haruto-san,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying like the gentle ripple of water. “It brings me such joy to see harmony between our families. Ayame has always admired your kindness… and your strength.”

Mrs. Takeda’s lips curved faintly. Ayame lowered her lashes, feigning modesty even as triumph danced in her eyes.

And Haruto—Haruto said nothing. His silence was heavier than words, a chain Hana felt tightening around her heart.

Chiyo’s gaze flicked to Hana briefly, sharp as a blade beneath velvet. Her meaning was clear: Know your place.

Hana bowed her head, her vision blurring as she stared at the polished tatami, its surface gleaming like frozen tears.

---

Outside, the wind rose, scattering cherry blossoms across the darkened garden. They spun and fell, fragile and fleeting—just like the hope Hana had dared to hold.