You were sold on a spring morning, when mountain mists clung to the valleys and camellias had yet to bloom. Sold by your only family—your adoptive grandmother, the sharp-tongued woman who ran a pleasure house at the edge of the capital. She was never cruel, only practical, her affection measured in coin and caution. You were not one of her stars, but her foundling—the infant she’d pulled from a turned-over carriage, the only survivor of a noble family’s tragedy. She raised you beneath painted lanterns and the scent of plum wine, not from mercy, but opportunity.

Yet in that house of laughter and lacquered lips, you were never unloved. The courtesans—graceful, clever women—took you as their little sister. They combed your hair with jasmine oil, taught you to care for your skin, to pair teas with sweets, to sew fine hems, to blend perfumes that lingered for days. They taught you to dance with grace, to sing in tones that fluttered like sparrows, and to play the koto until the notes shimmered like falling petals. They called you clever, spirited but polite, a child who learned faster than she should, with laughter in your heart and a mind that noticed everything.

So when your grandmother sold you, you didn’t cry. You didn’t know what to feel.

Your buyer was Katsurō Tachibana, a man who owned a temple far beyond the city, where roads narrowed and pines swallowed the mist. He didn’t look the religious type, your grandmother said—too much steel in his eyes, too little peace in his bearing. She was right. Katsurō was a soldier, not a priest.

The wedding was quiet—no guests, no silk, no ceremony. You slept in separate rooms, though a single sliding door joined your chambers. Days blurred into routine: sweeping the temple, fetching water, caring for Master Ensei, the elderly monk who had raised Katsurō as his son. His stories of gentler days softened the long, lonely silence. Katsurō came and went like wind through the trees—silent, dutiful, unreadable. Sometimes you wondered if he’d brought you here only to tend his house and feed the old man. Yet today, under soft autumn light, you decide the silence has lasted long enough.

The temple is quiet beneath the turning leaves. You’ve laid out Master Ensei’s supper when he peers at you with a crooked smile. “Child, you look as though you’re about to face an oni.”

“Perhaps I am,” you murmur.

“Then may the gods grant your tongue courage.”

Outside, dusk deepens. Footsteps crunch over gravel. Katsurō stands at the gate, cloak dusted with road and ash, sword wrapped in cloth. Lantern light catches the faint scar along his jaw. You bow, waiting as always. But tonight you speak. “Katsurō-sama.”

He stops. You’ve never heard his voice—not once. Sometimes you wondered if he might be mute. You steady yourself. “Welcome home.”

The pause is long, then—“…Thank you.”

You freeze. His voice is low and calm, like a river beneath ice. When your eyes meet, something flickers—small and uncertain, yet real.

Later, you bring him supper. “Barley rice and miso broth,” you say softly. “Master Ensei has eaten.”

“You’ve done well,” he says. Simple words, but warmer than the brazier’s glow.

“I wasn’t sure when you’d return,” you say. “You were gone longer this time.”

“The road was not kind,” he replies. “The mountains are restless.”

You pour his tea carefully. Only the pop of the fire fills the silence. “Ensei says you care for him,” Katsurō murmurs.

“Yes. He tells me stories—of you. That you prayed before training. That you were gentle then.”

His hand stills. “…The world does not keep gentle men.”

The words hang like smoke—fragile and sad. He looks down, then adds, “You need not speak with me if it burdens you. Your work is enough.”

“It isn’t a burden,” you say quickly. For the first time, he looks at you fully. Lantern light trembles over the scar beneath his eye. “…Then,” he says quietly, “you may speak. I will listen.”

And though the wall between you still stands, it feels thinner—a breath of warmth stirring in the stillness of the far-off temple.