The sound of running water had always been the closest thing to comfort in that house.

  It trickled in steady rhythm from the rock basin outside the window—one of those ornate tsukubai fountains set among raked gravel and mossy stone, the kind you'd see in a garden that had a caretaker with too much time and a master with too much money. The Katsuragi estate had both.

  I was ten years old, seated at the center of it all. A boy-sized figure tucked behind a lacquered desk twice my width, spine straight, shoulders square, brush in hand, inkpot just to my right like clockwork. A fresh sheet of paper lay before me, perfectly creased, unmarred. For now.

  “Souta-sama,” the tutor’s voice said behind me. “Begin.”

  My brush hovered. One breath in. Stroke—ichi. Horizontal line, clean and deliberate. Another breath. Stroke—ni. Vertical, down the middle. I was writing the kanji for “truth,” ironically. One mistake, and I’d have to start again. The Katsuragi family didn’t believe in white-out.

  I heard footsteps shift behind me. The floorboards didn’t creak here. Not because the house was new—it wasn’t—but because the servants had learned how to walk like shadows. This was a house built not just for wealth, but for control. You could feel it in the walls.

  “Your wrist,” the tutor said, and placed two fingers lightly beneath my elbow. “Keep it steady. Do not rush.”

  “Yes, sensei.”

  My voice sounded far away to me, even though it hadn’t left my own throat. I didn’t feel like I was here. I felt like I was floating a few feet above the room, watching myself move like a puppet in someone else’s hands.

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  My day began at 5:00 a.m., every day, without fail. No alarm clocks. Just the knock.

  It was always the same. One sharp rap at the door, followed by the voice of a maid I wasn’t supposed to know by name.

  “Good morning, Souta-sama.”

  Then the door slid open. Not gently—precisely. A breakfast tray was placed just inside. Miso soup, steamed rice, grilled fish. Everything made to be eaten silently, efficiently. I’d sit there in my yukata, eyes still adjusting to the light, going through the motions. No one asked if I’d slept well. It didn’t matter.

  Then came dressing. Uniform laid out. Hair combed, collar pressed. My reflection always looked like a stranger who happened to wear my face.

  And then, the schedule began.

  Calligraphy first. Then classical literature. After that, arithmetic drills, history, Chinese poetry. Latin, sometimes. I didn’t ask why. Nobody explained things in the Katsuragi house. You either already knew, or you were punished for not knowing.

  By the time most kids in Tokyo were just waking up, I’d already filled two notebooks and memorized half a passage from The Tale of Genji.

  At noon, there was a break. Lunch. But that wasn’t time off.

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  That was martial arts.

  ?　?　?

  “Souta-sama, again.”

  “Yes, sensei.”

  The bokken in my hand felt heavier than usual. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe my grip was too tight. Either way, my knuckles were starting to ache.

  Strike. Step. Turn. Again.

  The kendo master stood with arms crossed. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the quiet brutality of a man who expected every child he trained to be a soldier. Even if that child was barely ten, wearing a uniform that hadn’t quite caught up with his growth spurt.

  “You’re anticipating too much. You move before your opponent does. It will cost you.”

  I said nothing. I knew better.

  He stepped forward suddenly and struck me with the bamboo shinai. Hard, across the shoulder.

  I didn’t flinch.

  “Good,” he said, stepping back. “Pain is a teacher. Learn faster.”

  Behind him, my mother stood in the observation alcove. Unmoving. Expression unreadable.

  I wasn’t sure if she was proud, or just making sure I didn’t embarrass her in front of the staff.

  ?　?　?

  Afternoons were for refinement.

  Tea ceremony. Ikebana. The flute.

  Things you weren’t supposed to enjoy, only master.

  “Souta,” my mother said that day, as I poured water into a lacquered bowl, “you’re over-warming the chawan. Precision is respect. Again.”

  I looked up from my kneeling posture. “Yes, Mother.”

  She sat across from me in a lavender kimono, embroidered with the Katsuragi crest near the sleeve. Her posture was flawless. Always. When she moved, it was like a clock ticking into place.

  She wasn’t cruel. She didn’t scream. That would’ve been easier.

  Her discipline came with politeness sharpened into a blade.

  “You’ll be tested on this soon,” she added, sipping her tea. “You wouldn’t want your grandfather to be disappointed.”

  “No, Mother.”

  The words were habit now. Like muscle memory. Like how your body remembers a scar even after it’s healed.

  I hated the tea ceremony. I hated the way it demanded stillness when I wanted to run. I hated how every mistake felt like failure.

  But I hated disappointing her even more.

  ?　?　?

  Later that evening, I sat alone in the study. A stack of vocabulary flashcards lay on the table. I was going through them one by one, clockwork rhythm, when I heard the soft click of the door handle turning.

  My father walked in.

  I hadn’t heard him come home. He was always quiet like that. Always dressed in a slightly rumpled suit, eyes just a little too tired, tie loosened like he’d meant to take it off but hadn’t quite gotten around to it.

  “Hey,” he said softly.

  I looked up from my cards. “Good evening, Father.”

  He smiled faintly and closed the door behind him. “You busy?”

  “Studying.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  I didn’t, but I hesitated anyway. The rules of the house didn’t make space for this—unscheduled conversations. Emotional proximity. But this was Father. So I nodded.

  He sat across from me, resting his elbows on his knees, mirroring the posture I’d seen him take a hundred times after work—before dinner, before sleep, before fading into his quiet corner of the house.

  “Did you get any free time today?” he asked.

  I blinked. “I had fifteen minutes after lunch.”

  He frowned. “Fifteen?”

  I shrugged. “There was a scheduling delay with the flute instructor.”

  “That’s… not what I meant.”

  I didn’t say anything. Just shuffled the flashcards again. I’d started doing that when I didn’t know how to answer questions. Buying time.

  He noticed.

  “Souta,” he said, more carefully now. “Are you okay?”

  I kept my eyes on the cards. “I’m doing what’s expected.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  I didn’t look up.

  There was a long silence. Not uncomfortable. Just… still. Like the house was holding its breath.

  Finally, he reached forward and plucked a card from the top of the stack. Flipped it over.

  “Do you know this one?”

  “Yes. It’s fukuzatsu—complicated.”

  He turned the card back toward me. “Seems appropriate.”

  I almost smiled. Almost.

  He didn’t push further. He just sat with me for a while, until the silence settled into something less heavy.

  Then, without a word, he set the card down and stood. “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

  “I won’t.”

  As he left, I turned the card back over again, staring at the word.

  Fukuzatsu.

  Complicated.

  Yeah. That sounded about right.

  To be continued…