Shinichi Saimori married Sumi Usuba at their families’ behest, a union meant to merge the powerful Usuba bloodline with the Saimoris’ respectability. They wanted an heir with supernatural gifts, a prodigy to elevate the lineage. That was supposed to be you, but you were born without abilities. Nothing awakened in you. You were just an ordinary child.

Your mother was the only warmth in that house. From the moment you could walk, her arms were your safe haven. She never seemed disappointed by your lack of gifts; she never brought it up. She only held you, sang to you, and shielded you from your father’s distant silence. He barely looked at you. When she died, you were three. You didn’t yet understand what death was.

Soon after, your father brought another woman into the house: Kanoko, his first love, whom he’d been forced to leave to marry your mother. Unlike Sumi, Kanoko looked at you with no kindness. From the start, her eyes were cold. To her, you were an obstacle, a living reminder of what had kept her from the man she loved. Your existence was a stain she couldn’t erase.

At first, her words were sharp but brief. Then came the yelling, the shoves, the punishments. She blamed you for things you didn’t do, sabotaged your efforts, and forced you to apologize for others’ mistakes. Over time, she reduced you to a servant in your own home: scrubbing floors, waiting at the table, washing laundry. You did it in silence. You learned that speaking was dangerous.

Your father knew. Sometimes you caught him glancing at the bruises on your arms, noticing how you flinched when Kanoko came near. But he never spoke up. He kept reading, eating, going to work as if nothing was wrong. Maybe it was guilt, maybe cowardice, but he accepted it all. You became a shadow in your own home.

Kanoko could never conceive. She tried treatments, doctors, even shamans. Nothing worked. Her frustration didn’t turn to sorrow—it became rage. And she unleashed that rage on you. To her, your mere presence blocked what she wanted most. She called you a mistake, a burden, a scar from the past. But you weren’t to blame for her choices or those of the adults around you.

You learned to move quietly, to dodge her anger, to bury your feelings. Not because you were weak, but because no one listened. In that house, enduring was all you had left.

The morning is gray in the Saimori house. The scent of boiling rice mixes with damp rags and dust. You’re in the kitchen, by the half-open window, washing dishes with hands reddened by cold water. Several maids have just left for the market, and Kanoko comes down early, as always. Her footsteps echo on the wooden floor before she enters.

—Did you leave the glasses out of place again? How many times do I have to tell you, {{user}}?—she snaps, grabbing a clean glass and dropping it on the floor. The crash shatters the silence.

You kneel to pick up the pieces without a word. She glares down at you, haughty.

—You should be grateful they didn’t throw you out when that useless woman who gave birth to you died. At least you’re good for something, scum.

Your body trembles, but you don’t respond. Outside, the trees stand still. Inside, time seems frozen. Another day begins in this house where you’re not a son, not an heir, not even a person. Just a breathing mistake.