Chapter 19: The Forgotten Samurai
As the morning sun rose, the kitchen was quiet.
It wasn't a peaceful quiet—it was the heavy, suffocating stillness of a room that had held too much the night before. The silence settled in layers, like dust on old furniture, thick enough to taste.
Kokoro sat at the long mahogany table, hunched over a mug of tea she hadn’t touched. Her eyes were rimmed with a stubborn red, but she’d scrubbed at her skin until it burned, desperate to erase the evidence of her midnight collapse.
Kotaro moved between the counter and the sink, his movements sharp. He set a glass of water down near her with a muffled thud.
“Eat something,” he muttered, not looking at her.
She didn't argue, but she didn't pick up the bread. Instead, she watched the doorway as heavy, rhythmic footsteps approached.
Heavy, rhythmic footsteps padded down the hall.
Kyle entered, his dark hair tousled and his hoodie only half-zipped. He paused at the threshold, his eyes scanning the room before offering a soft, gravelly, “Morning.”
Kokoro’s heart took a painful, traitorous jump against her ribs. She nodded quickly, her gaze diving back into the swirling patterns of her tea.
Kyle moved to the counter, starting his own kettle. He glanced at Kokoro once—a flicker of a look that lingered just a second too long—but he didn't say anything.
The air in the room shifted a few minutes later as Kotomi stepped in.
She was freshly showered, her damp hair pulled into a neat, low braid that only emphasized the hollowness of her cheeks. She wore the fuzzy socks Kotaro had provided and a long-sleeved shirt that was far too large.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator.
No one responded immediately. The weight of what had happened in the guest room—the dream, the scream, the name—sat on the table like an uninvited guest.
Kotomi moved to the far end of the table and sat, folding her hands in her lap. Her gaze stayed low, fixed on the grain of the wood. Every sound—the clink of a spoon, the hiss of the kettle—made her shoulders flinch.
The silence thickened. Kokoro stared into her tea, watching the steam curl and fade into nothing.
And then, somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open.
The hallway boards let out a long, slow groan. Kotomi’s spine stiffened until she was in a straight line of tension. Her fingers curled around the edge of her mug, her knuckles whitening.
A shadow stretched across the kitchen floor, long and jagged.
Masayuki stepped into the kitchen. Behind him, Sebastian followed—silent, impeccable, and observing the room with a gaze that suggested he was ready to react should another incident occur.
Masayuki’s gaze swept the kitchen. It paused on each of them—Kotaro, Kyle, Kokoro—until it finally settled on Kotomi.
She flinched, the movement sharp and instinctive.
He saw it. And then, he did something that made the air go still.
He bowed.
It wasn't a casual nod. It was a full, formal dogeza-style bow from a standing position—his spine bent, his arms stiff at his sides, his head lowered until his hair shadowed his face. It was the posture of a man surrendering his soul.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, his voice low and raspy, as if his throat were filled with gravel. “For what I did. For how I acted. I let the ghosts of my past override my judgment.”
No one moved. Kotomi stared at the top of his head, her breath hitching in her chest.
“I was wrong to attack you,” he continued, still bowing. “I let my anger override my judgment. That is not an excuse. It is simply the truth.”
He straightened slowly. His eyes met hers, and for the first time, the terrifying fire was gone, replaced by a cold, hollow ache.
“I saw the hair ornament you wore,” he said, his jaw tightening. “The silver camellia. It resembles something that once belonged to my betrothed.”
The room went deathly silent. Kokoro felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the morning draft.
Kotomi’s voice was a fragile thread. “Your… betrothed?”
Masayuki nodded once. “A long time ago. Before this nation united as one. Back when I thought the world was simple.”
Kotomi stared at him, her mug forgotten. The silver ornament on the table between them seemed to pulse with a hidden history. And then, quietly, she asked the question that had been haunting her since the nightmare.
“Who is Shiraishi?”
Masayuki flinched as if she’d struck him with a blade.
“I heard you,” Kotomi pressed, her voice gaining a desperate strength. “In the hallway. You screamed his name like it was a curse. And then I saw a man in my dream… a man with that name.”
Masayuki didn’t answer. He looked away, his throat working as he tried to swallow a memory that was too jagged to go down.
His head snapped back toward her, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “What did you say? You saw him? In a dream?”
He paused, looking at Kyle, then at the twins, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He looked like a man realizing the trap he’d escaped centuries ago had finally caught up to him.
“I need you to tell me,” Kotomi said, her voice breaking. “Please.”
Masayuki closed his eyes. He took a long, shuddering breath.
“Then listen,” he said. “And pray the telling doesn't burn you as it burned me.”
Masayuki stood perfectly still, as if bracing against a gale only he could feel.
“I was born in the Edo period,” he began. “A fisherman’s son. Nothing more. My life was meant to be measured in nets and tides.”
Kotomi’s eyes widened. Kokoro leaned forward, the tea forgotten.
“I was twelve when I was taken in by the Daimyo’s household. They needed a stable boy who wasn't afraid of the high-strung stallions. I learned to listen to the horses, and eventually, to the whispers behind the paper walls.”
He glanced toward Sebastian, who stood like a statue of iron and silk.
“I rose through the ranks. By twenty, I was the Daimyo’s aide. I carried his seal. I knew every corridor of the estate, every secret hidden in the garden shadows.”
He paused, his voice softening.
“Eventually I knew his daughter.”
Kotomi’s breath caught.
“She was… light,” he said, and for a fleeting second, his face softened into something beautiful. “Not in the way of fragility. In the way of warmth. She laughed with her whole body. She used to sneak me sweets when I worked late, hiding them in the sleeves of her kimono so the guards wouldn't see.”
He smiled, a ghostly, flickering thing.
“We were careful. A servant and a noble’s daughter—it was a death sentence. But we found ways. A shared umbrella in the rain. A glance across a courtyard. It was enough. It was everything.”
Kyle’s gaze dropped to the table. Kokoro’s fingers curled into her sleeves.
“Then came the night of the fire.”
Masayuki’s voice dropped into a hollow register. The memories flooded back: the acrid smell of accelerants, the unnatural silence of the crickets, and then the roar of the flames.
“I found the assassin at her door,” Masayuki whispered. “He was dressed in white—not the white of a mourner, but the white of a ghost. He moved too fast for a man. His eyes were cold, like he was counting the beats of my heart.”
It was distinctly clear an assassin had slipped into the estate. They poisoned the guards and tried to kill the daimyo’s daughter in her sleep.
The fight had been desperate. Masayuki was outclassed, driven back by a professional killer into the burning corridor. Embers rained down like glowing snow.
“He lunged for her,” Masayuki said, his hand subconsciously moving to his side. “I didn't think. I just threw myself in the path. The blade went deep—right here.”
He touched the jagged scar on his ribs.
“I should’ve died. I felt the cold iron touch my spine. But as my blood hit the floorboards, it didn't stay red. It began to glow. A violet heat rushed through my veins, screaming louder than the fire.”
Masayuki had collapsed, but the flames had parted around him, forming a protective circle of cold air.
“I woke up a month later,” he said. “The Daimyo’s daughter was at my bedside, her hands burned from pulling me out of the wreckage. Once I could walk, I was summoned to the Lord’s private chamber.”
There, the Daimyo—a man who never smiled—had bowed to his servant.
“Masayuki, I thank you for saving my blood,” he had said. “For this, I offer you anything. Fame. Riches. Glory. Name it, and it is yours.”
Masayuki’s eyes turned misty. “I told him I was only doing my duty. But he saw the way I looked at her. And she saw the way I looked at him.”
The Daimyo had given a hardy, booming laugh that Masayuki could still hear if he closed his eyes.
“I knew you would say that,” the old man had mused. “But my daughter has forbidden any other servant from taking care of you. She personally tended your wounds while you slept.”
“Father!” the daughter had cried out, her ears turning bright red.
Kotomi’s lips parted in awe.
“He gave me her hand,” Masayuki said. “We were to be married in the spring, when the camellias bloomed.”
He exhaled, the memory hurting him. “It was the happiest I have ever been. It was a dream I thought I’d never wake from.”
He looked up, his eyes burning with a thousand years of hate.
“Two weeks before the wedding, they were found mysteriously murdered.”
