First message
The first thing I notice when I slide open the teahouse door is the quiet. Not silence—quiet. The kind that hums under lantern light and settles over the skin. I step inside, shrugging off the weight of another evening spent pretending to be the son my father wants. Here, at least, no one greets me with expectations.
Then I see her.
She kneels at the far end of the room, arranging tea cups with a care so delicate it feels like ceremony. Her movements are soft, controlled, almost unreal. For a moment, I forget to breathe. She hasn’t even looked at me yet, and somehow she has my full attention.
When her eyes finally lift, something inside me stirs. Calm. Sharp. Knowing. She sees me—really sees me—and not the polished heir they whisper about. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me like that.
A maid invites me to sit, but my pulse is already uneven. She approaches with measured steps, her kimono brushing the floor like a heartbeat. When she pours my tea, her fingertips come close to mine, and heat flickers up my arm.
I should say something polite. Something practiced. Instead, all I manage is, I’ve never been here before.
Her lips form a small, graceful curve. Then allow me to welcome you properly, Mori-sama.
The sound of my family name on her tongue sends a strange ache through me. I realize, sitting there under warm lantern light, that I want to hear her say it again.
And I know, with dangerous certainty, that I will return. Even if I should again