Winter came quietly that year.

  Snow rarely lingered in our part of Tokyo, but the frost did. It glazed the garden stones, curled the edges of the shoji screens, crept into the tatami mats like a breath you couldn’t exhale.

  My days grew shorter and more rigid. Two tutors now: one for technique, the other for artistry. I sat for hours copying poems in ink, brush in hand until my fingers ached from posture correction and repetition. One smudge, one misplaced stroke, and it was back to the start. Again. Again.

  I never complained.

  That was the rule.

  You swallow the pain, lace it into discipline, and smile on command.

  ◇◆◇◆◇

  It was mid-January when the Katsuragi New Year’s Ceremony arrived—an annual event that served as both a family gathering and corporate showcase. Dozens of people in black suits and kimonos. Executives, shareholders, partners, all swirling around lacquered bento trays and tea. Even the Governor had sent flowers this year.

  I’d performed at the event since I was eight. Poetry recital, formal greetings, etiquette demonstrations. But this year was different. I had been asked—no, told—to give a calligraphy demonstration live on stage.

  A bold move, Mother said. The Shinoharas would be watching.

  I arrived early, hair combed down, dressed in a navy montsuki with the Katsuragi crest embroidered in silver thread. My fingers felt stiff inside the hakama sleeves. Too much ink practice. Too little rest.

  I waited backstage as the MC gave the opening address.

  Then I heard my name.

  “Katsuragi Souta-sama, heir to the family lineage, will now offer a traditional ink performance—a tribute to both our heritage and future.”

  Applause.

  The curtain pulled back.

  And I stepped into the light.

  ?　?　?

  The stage was too quiet. Too bright. The inkstone sat in front of me, brush standing like a blade. Rows of faces watched, mostly expressionless. I recognized the Shinohara matriarch. I recognized Grandfather. I recognized the board members from the Katsuragi Foundation. All waiting for proof that their bloodline still carried weight.

  I bowed. Kneeling, I dipped the brush into the ink.

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  The moment the brush hit paper, I knew something was wrong.

  My hand. It trembled.

  Just slightly.

  Barely noticeable—but to me, it was everything.

  I kept going. Drew the first character: 誠—truth. Second: 志—will. The third wavered: 道—path.

  The line dragged too slow.

  I could feel the weight of their eyes. I could hear the silence stretch like ice about to crack.

  My wrist shook again.

  I pressed harder.

  The bristles splayed.

  Ink bled out in a blot, blooming like a bruise on the washi paper.

  A small sound broke from the crowd. Someone shifted in their seat. A whisper passed down the row like wind across dry grass.

  I froze.

  I stared at the stain on the page.

  My face flushed, hot and rising fast, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

  I dropped the brush.

  ?　?　?

  Later, I wouldn’t remember the applause. I wouldn’t remember who came to cover for me or how the MC transitioned into the next speech. All I remember is my father’s hand on my back, guiding me gently but firmly off the stage and into a waiting room.

  The door closed behind us.

  I kept staring at my hands.

  Ink-stained fingers. Still trembling.

  “I ruined it,” I said quietly.

  “No,” he replied.

  “They won’t let me try again.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  I looked up.

  He was calm. Too calm.

  Then he knelt in front of me. Not as a father, not as an heir—just as a man looking into the eyes of his son.

  “Souta,” he said, “this has to stop.”

  I blinked. “What does?”

  “All of it. This life. This pressure. The way they’ve turned you into a symbol instead of a boy.”

  “But—”

  “No. Listen to me.”

  He rarely interrupted me. Rarely raised his voice. This wasn’t anger. It was resolve.

  “You don’t belong to them. You don’t belong to your mother. Or Grandfather. Or this name.”

  His voice broke slightly.

  “You’re not a tool. You’re my son.”

  Something inside me cracked open.

  Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a fracture. A breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding for years finally escaping.

  And in that small silence, I cried.

  I hadn’t cried since I was seven.

  Not when I fell off the dojo platform. Not when I missed the gold ranking in my last exam. Not when Grandfather called me “adequate” in front of half the board.

  But there, in that quiet back room, with ink still on my skin and failure burning behind my eyes—I wept.

  ?　?　?

  We left the ceremony early.

  No scene. No shouting. No drama.

  Just an email sent to Mother. A call made to the family lawyer. A quiet departure, like we were ghosts slipping between the cracks of a house we no longer belonged to.

  Within a month, Father filed for divorce.

  He refused the Katsuragi settlement. Walked away from the inheritance, the board seats, the name.

  He changed ours.

  Minami.

  A name with no weight. No history. Just direction.

  South.

  Away from the cold.

  Away from the stone walls.

  Away from who we were told we had to be.

  ?　?　?

  We moved to a modest apartment on the edge of town.

  My new room had squeaky floors and a small window that overlooked an alley. It smelled like old wood and fresh paint. No servants. No garden. Just space.

  And silence.

  But not the kind that listened and judged.

  The kind that allowed you to breathe.

  For the first time in my life, I was allowed to wake up without a schedule.

  No tutors. No inspections. No legacy on my shoulders.

  It felt… wrong at first.

  Like I was betraying something.

  But Father smiled more. He started cooking breakfast. Badly, but with enthusiasm.

  He laughed when he burned toast. Laughed when he slipped trying to mop the floor. Laughed like a man who had been underwater for years and finally broke the surface.

  And slowly, I started to laugh too.

  We didn’t talk much about the Katsuragis after that.

  Not because we forgot.

  But because we were finally remembering ourselves.

  End of Prologue 1, Katsuragi.