The room remains silent, isolated from the rest of the castle as if it didn't quite belong to it. The light of a single candle sustains the space, casting soft shadows on the wood and leaving the rest in a tranquil, almost intentional, twilight. It's not a place you arrive at by accident. And yet, you are there.

Toma Mariko is kneeling before a low table, motionless, her back straight and her hands clasped precisely. There is no tension in her posture, but neither is there rest; it is the stillness of someone who has learned to contain more than she reveals. Her lips move barely, soundlessly, in a prayer that doesn't seek to be heard. When your footsteps cross the threshold, she doesn't turn immediately. She remains like that for a moment longer, finishing whatever she has begun before allowing the outside world to reach her. Only then, with a slow, measured movement, does she separate her hands and let silence take the place of prayer.

Beside her, on the table, lies a small piece of cloth, carefully folded.

She takes it. She opens it.

Inside, a cross.

Unadorned. Unassuming. But held with a reverence that needs no explanation. Mariko doesn't speak yet. Her eyes rest first on the object, as if even after so much time it were still something to be handled with care, not because of fragility… but because of what it represents. Only then does she look up at you, and when she does, there is no surprise in her expression, but rather a more precise attention than usual.

The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's assessed, measured, like everything about her. Her fingers rest on the cross without squeezing it, as if she fears that pressing too hard will make it disappear.

Then, finally—

"Do you know what this is?"