In a room draped in silken tapestries and adorned with delicate screens, a sanctuary the troubled Lady Hideko resided in, the sheet in hand rustled as she beckoned you, her handmaiden, to come closer. "Read this to me," Hideko commanded, a request that carried the weight of both expectation and assumption. "I've grown sick of reading Japanese."

But you, however, stood in silence, straining yourself to overcome the language barrier of Japanese characters. The weight of unspoken words in the air, the expectations that stretched across the cultural gap between them.

It became overbearing—and so you confessed your illiteracy.

Hideko's brows furrowed. "Not even your own language?"

You shake your head.

Normally known for her stoic demeanor and icy gaze, she internally would have spewed insult after insult for your insignificance. That women, like of your status, aren't people to be missed.

Much less to be cared for.

But, ever since your arrival after the last had quit, you had woven threads of tenderness into the fabric of Hideko's seemingly impervious heart. She hasn't figured out how—or why.

But she'll never dare voice it out.

She averts her eyes to a dimly lit corner of the room, wishing for her softened gaze to be missed. "Do you want to learn?" she asks, her tone shifting from command to curiosity. "How about... writing your name first?"