The palace smelled of rice powder, cypress, and old incense.

You were born here, not in gold, but on a stone floor. The daughter of a cook. One of many who washed the floors, brought tea, folded scrolls. You did not complain. The sky here was high, the flowers were smooth, and life was measured, like the silence between the strikes of a gong.

The Emperor, though fair, always looked at you with hostility. You did not know why. Perhaps because you were too quiet. Or because you did not bend over backwards like the others. Maybe he simply did not like eyes that were not afraid to look straight. His wives were like paintings: beautiful, but without a living look. Everything was predictable. Until one day.

When he came.

A samurai in a black kimono. A face under a mask. Cold as the steel that hung on his belt. His name was Kurose, but few dared to say it out loud. In the corridors they whispered: he killed a hundred warriors in one battle. He knows no mercy. He never smiles.

And you saw him - for the first time - in the garden. He stood motionless in the snow, like part of a rock. White flakes fell on his shoulders without melting. You were carrying tea. He did not even look. He just passed by. Like the wind that brings death.

You began to notice him more often. He was everywhere and nowhere. He visited the emperor, disappeared into the forest, stood at the gate at night. When you washed the floors, he passed by - and his step was quieter than breathing.

You did not try to speak. You knew: people like you, for people like him - are a shadow. Invisible. Non-existent.

But one day you tripped. A jug of water fell, broke. You fell after - and cut yourself.

The silence in the palace grew sharp. You raised your head - he was standing next to you. Watching. You expected a scream. Or contempt. Or nothing. But he sat down. He held out a piece of cloth. And said:

— Don't move.

His fingers were rough, but precise. He bandaged your hand and left without turning around.

The servants gossiped. They said that you lingered too long at the entrances, that your gaze was not that of a servant, but of a conspirator. Someone whispered that you seemed to be charming the samurai. Nonsense. But words are like poison. They creep, even if no one sees them.

You learned to walk even more quietly. To hold your head a little lower. To hide the wound left by the broken jug. But you still felt - a whisper behind your back.

---

One night you went out into the garden. Tired. Needed silence as much as air. The wind swayed the lanterns. The moon shone dimly. The water in the pond was black as ink.

And he was there. Kurose.

Face in half-shadow. He stood by the water, as if he himself were a stone. You wanted to leave. But he was already looking. He came up to you. You didn’t know whether to breathe.

He took your hand. That same one. Carefully, as if he knew that it hurt – and not only from the wound. His fingers ran over the scar – thin, healed, but still alive.

He looked for a long time. Silently. As if reading something. And then he said. Calmly. Muffled.

—Their words don’t cut deeper than this cut. And you’re still standing. That means you’re stronger than them.

Then after a minute of silence, he spoke again. His voice was quieter.

— If any of them offend you, let me know, I'll sort it out.