The Katsuragi family estate had a silence all its own.

  It wasn't peaceful. Not really. Peace implied freedom. This was something else—a curated stillness, heavy and intentional. The kind that made you check your footsteps even when you were alone. Like the walls were listening.

  By the time I was eleven, I had mastered the art of moving without making noise. The staff called it grace. I called it survival.

  On paper, I was thriving. My calligraphy had won third place in a national competition. Mother had smiled—an actual, full smile—when the results were read aloud in the drawing room. Grandfather nodded in approval, and someone on the board of directors even sent a congratulatory bouquet.

  But later that night, when I brought the certificate to her room, she only said, “Third is not first.”

  Then she told me to leave it on the desk and return to my grammar drills.

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  The next morning, I found Father in the garden.

  It was rare to see him this early. He usually left before dawn for meetings in the city, returning after dinner, sometimes after I was already asleep. But that day, he was just standing there by the koi pond in his slacks and shirt sleeves, no jacket, no tie, holding a steaming cup of coffee like it might warm more than just his hands.

  I approached quietly, not wanting to interrupt. But he noticed me anyway.

  “Hey,” he said without turning around. “Up early?”

  I nodded. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  He made a soft sound in his throat—half laugh, half sigh.

  “Yeah,” he said, “me neither.”

  The silence stretched.

  Then: “Congratulations on your calligraphy award.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I heard your mother’s feedback.”

  I didn’t respond. He didn’t expect me to.

  He took a sip of his coffee. “You know, when I was your age, I came in second at a prefectural debate tournament. I was devastated.”

  I looked up at him. “Why?”

  “Because my father asked me if the first-place winner was smarter or just more disciplined.”

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  I winced without meaning to.

  He glanced down at me. “Yeah. It runs in the family.”

  “Did you ever beat him?”

  He smiled faintly. “No. I stopped entering tournaments.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Listen, Souta…” He crouched down slightly, so we were eye-level. His voice dropped, gentler now. “You’re allowed to be proud of yourself, even if no one else says it out loud.”

  “I don’t think Mother—”

  “I’m not talking about your mother.”

  He placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. “You’re doing your best. I see that. And it’s enough. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

  That stayed with me. Not just the words, but the way he said them.

  Like he knew what it was to chase something that never let you stop running.

  The competition plaque went on a shelf in the second-floor hallway. Somewhere between a lacquer box from an overseas trip and a flower arrangement that was refreshed weekly by a professional designer. My name was engraved in small, delicate font. Not big enough to brag. Just enough to be noticed by the right people.

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  A week after that, Grandfather arrived.

  The Katsuragi patriarch was not a man you ignored. He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t have to. Presence was power, and his filled every room he entered. A former chairman of multiple companies, his portrait already hung in three executive halls, and his opinions still bent the trajectory of mergers like wind against trees.

  He arrived by black car, as usual, and was ushered into the tea room where Mother waited with perfect posture.

  I was called in after ten minutes.

  I stepped inside and bowed deeply, as trained. When I lifted my head, Grandfather was watching me with the kind of gaze you reserved for rare artifacts or antiques that had yet to prove their worth.

  “Souta,” he said. “Come sit.”

  I knelt as instructed.

  He studied me for a moment. “Your calligraphy performance has drawn attention.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather.”

  “There are rumors the Shinohara family may be grooming their eldest for cultural ambassadorship. They’ll likely submit her to the national arts scholarship next spring.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “We will do the same.”

  My heart jumped. Not with excitement—nerves. That scholarship wasn’t just an award. It was a statement. A brand. A move in a much larger game.

  “I will begin preparations,” Mother said calmly beside him. “We’ll bring in a second tutor.”

  “Good,” he replied. “The Katsuragi name cannot afford mediocrity.”

  I nodded again, lower this time, but my knees were starting to ache under the weight of the moment.

  Then he turned to my father.

  “And you? Are you still playing executive at that start-up firm?”

  Father’s jaw tightened just slightly. “It’s not a start-up. We merged last quarter with Kawabata Holdings.”

  “Still playing with small fish, then.”

  The jab landed. Clean and quiet. Like all of Grandfather’s attacks.

  Father said nothing.

  Just like always.

  ?　?　?

  Later that night, I heard them arguing.

  It wasn’t loud—never loud. The Katsuragi way didn’t allow for raised voices. But you could feel it through the walls. A low-pressure rumble, like a storm too proud to shout.

  I pressed my ear to the shoji screen separating the hallway from their study.

  “He’s a child,” Father was saying. “You’re turning him into a product.”

  “I’m preparing him,” Mother replied, clipped. “He doesn’t have the luxury of failure.”

  “He’s eleven, Kaede.”

  “And he’s a Katsuragi.”

  There was a long silence.

  Then: “You weren’t like this before.”

  “You weren’t this weak before,” she snapped back, colder now.

  That hurt more than anything. Not because of the words, but the way Father didn’t answer.

  I stepped away from the door and walked back to my room.

  I lay in bed that night, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind chimes outside rattle softly in the breeze.

  I didn’t cry. Not anymore.

  Not for this house.

  Not for these people.

  Not even for myself.

  To be continued...