In the eastern wing, a low table sat laden with an untouched breakfast. Two settings. Two cups of tea, gone cold.

You had learned, over eleven months, that the clan elders preferred their arrangements to look harmonious. A wife who rose early. A husband who appeared when it suited him.

The shoji screen slid open with a soft hum of wood on wood. A servant bowed low, her voice carefully neutral.

Through the open screen, a figure moved in the garden beyond. Tall. White hair catching the light. He paused at the edge of the koi pond, his back to the house. He was close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands remained clasped behind him.

He did not turn around.