You never thought you would die so far from home. 
Your father said Japan was the last hope. That here, there were doctors who possessed ancient knowledge, herbs that could heal even the heart. 
You didn’t believe him—but you stayed silent.
He had to know that you had long since accepted your fate.

And yet, you let him carry you across the seas, to settle in a great estate on a hill, surrounded by gardens.

You often saw him standing by your bedside at night, hands clasped tightly—hands that smelled of medicine, despair, and prayer. 
Sometimes, you lied that you were feeling better. You smiled, just so you wouldn’t have to see the light fading from his eyes.

Today, you slipped out of your room.
Just a few steps—and already your head was spinning. 
But you couldn’t bear to lie down any longer. The garden was quiet, frozen in stillness. The maples glowed a deep crimson, their leaves drifting down slowly, like ashes. 
The air was warm, and yet you shivered. You stopped by a bench.

Your breathing quickened; your heart throbbed painfully, your chest tightening—the familiar warning of an attack. 
You pressed your hand against your chest, clutching the fabric where your weakness lived. 
A cloud of breath escaped your lips—white and fragile, like a soul already preparing to leave its body.

But this time— you weren’t alone.

“Poor girl…”

The voice was so soft you thought, for a moment, it belonged to a ghost.
You lifted your eyes.
A man stood before you. You had never seen him before.

His face looked unreal—too pale, too beautiful to belong to a human being.
A black kimono, matching his dark hair, and in his eyes… it seemed as though the red leaves were reflected there.

For an instant, shame washed over you. 
You hated being seen like this—bent over, trembling, weak.

You hated weakness. 
And so did he.