Chapter 12
Fleeting Footsteps
Snow drapes the world in quiet absolution,
falling in slow whispers against the windowpane. Each flake lingers for a
breath, then vanishes. The clock ticks steadily—indifferent, unstoppable. Time
moves forward whether we’re ready or not.
A shift stirs within me, subtle as snowfall. A
quiet reckoning. Endurance takes root in the soul, carrying us forward, even
when the world feels distant, cold.
Amber light from my bedside lamp spills across
the room, stretching long shadows over the tatami walls. It catches the edges
of old photographs—faces frozen in time, smiling as if they still breathe.
Outside, snow thickens, blanketing rooftops and winding streets in a fragile
stillness, something sacred in its hush.
I pause before the mirror, fingers curling around
a lacquered comb. Painted sakura blossoms bloom across its surface—delicate,
eternal. A gift from Akina, from a summer long past. I close my eyes, and the
present dissolves.
There she is—Akina, barely a teenager, beneath
Kyoto’s festival lanterns. The kimono I sewed for her flutters in the night
breeze, its fabric adorned with the same blossoms she now paints onto the comb.
Her voice hums softly, hands moving with the careful grace of an artist lost in
creation. Pride swells in my chest, but beneath it, a quiet fear. The world she
steps into is beautiful, yes—but beauty is no shield.
A sharp ping pulls me back. My phone screen
glows.
A smile tugs at my lips as I open the email.
For the first time in a long while, I dared to
do something unimaginable—for Carlos. My love for him fills my heart, and I
hope one day to find him a kind and loving wife. Your grandson, Ken, gave me
the idea, and my granddaughters wasted no time in encouraging me. Well, I will
step forward in my endeavor. I will… find Carlos a good woman.
I chuckle, fingers hovering over the keys.
The words come easily, warm and teasing. A quiet
laugh escapes me, mingling with the lingering scent of incense.
I type.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
"Let me tell
you about my granddaughter, Akina. She shines like the sun, her light so bright
it chases away shadows. As a child, her father thrust her into the world of
fame—a choice her mother and I tried to temper as best we could. Now, as an
independent woman, she has taken hold of her destiny. She stands at the helm of
her mother’s fashion empire, the face and voice of a generation, inspiring
countless others.
I should be nothing but proud. And I am. But when
she smiles for the cameras, I wonder—does she smile for herself?
Success is a gilded thing—radiant, revered, and
unbearably heavy.
And beneath it all, she is still that little
girl, lost in her own world of art. She secretly indulges in manga, sketching
stories with a passion she hides from the public eye. Now, she’s even creating
her own—a vivid fantasy in the genre of yaoi.
I sigh, shaking my head, amusement curling at my
lips.
I reread my words, laughter lingering in my
chest. My finger hovers over the send button.
A soft knock at the door.
“Tea’s ready,” Yuka calls.
“One moment,” I reply, steadying my voice against
the tide of my thoughts.
I glance at the email once more, then press send.
My words, full of affection, worry, and unspoken hopes, slip into the ether,
bound for the one person who might understand.
The Living Room
Moonlight spills through the shoji screens, silver washing over polished wood. Snow glows under its touch, casting soft shadows along the floor. Between Yuka and me, a low table. Porcelain cups rest in the quiet. Steam curls from the teapot, mingling with the scent of green tea and faint traces of incense.
I take a sip, the gentle bitterness grounding me. The silence tonight is heavy, thick like the snow blanketing the streets.
“Yuka,” I murmur, setting my cup down. “I worry about Akina. This life she leads… it moves too fast.”
She exhales slowly, fingers tightening around her cup. “She’s carrying so much. We watch her shine, but… does she ever rest? Does she ever breathe?”
Her voice cracks slightly, and it settles deep in my chest, an echo of my own fears. I nod, gaze dropping to my tea, watching the ripples settle into stillness.
“Fame is a strange beast,” I say softly. “It lifts you high enough to touch the stars, but it can also leave you stranded, too far from the ground to remember who you are.”
Yuka leans back, hands resting on her lap, fingers tracing invisible patterns on her kimono. “And RuRi?” she asks quietly. “Do you think she feels it too? Living in Akina’s shadow…”
A pang tightens in my heart. I picture RuRi now—quieter, more observant, always watching from the edges of the frame.
“She has her own light,” I say, though doubt lingers at the edges of my words. “She doesn’t chase the stage like Akina, but I wonder… does she ever feel invisible?”
The room sinks into hush. The clock on the mantle ticks, a quiet metronome to our thoughts. I glance at Yuka, and in her expression, I see it—the same fragile balance of pride and worry that I carry.
“Do you remember,” I say after a moment, “the first time Akina performed on stage? She wore that little dress you made for her, the one with the golden ribbon. She was so nervous.”
Yuka’s lips lift in a soft, wistful smile. “She clung to my hand and said, ‘Mama, will you hold my fear for me?’”
A chuckle escapes me, warm but aching. “And now? Who holds it for her now?”
Snow drifts against the window. Silent. Endless. Beautiful.
Yuka smiles. “Ruri.”
I squeeze my daughter's hand, meeting her gaze with a knowing smile. And I wonder—somewhere out there, is Akina watching the snow fall? Is Ruri beside her, whispering a quiet reminder to pause, to breathe?