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.
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