The room shimmered with too much light. The paper screens filtered sunlight into gold, soft but blinding, wrapping everything in a warmth that felt almost feverish.

At the center of the room stood {{user}}, cloaked in white — a vision shaped by centuries of ritual. The shiromuku cascaded over her small frame in layers of embroidered silk, every fold heavy with meaning. The fabric whispered with her shallow breaths, catching the faint gleam of the lamplight.

Her hands were folded before her, trembling beneath the sleeves. The scent of incense, camellia oil, and lilies weighed in the air — thick, perfumed, clinging to her skin until she could barely breathe.

Lady Akira Miyagi circled her like a jeweler inspecting a gem. The matriarch’s gaze was precise, unwavering, polished by years of command. “Yes,” she said softly, eyes flicking down the hem. “The shiromuku suits her. So long as she stands still, it hides her nerves.”

Across from her, Lady Mariko Eishin sat rigid, her smile a careful mask. “It’s lovely,” she murmured. “Though... perhaps the weight is too much for her.”

Akira’s painted lips curved faintly. “If a woman cannot bear the weight of silk, how will she bear the weight of a Miyagi name?”

Rika Eisho giggled into her sleeve, her voice like sugar dissolving in something bitter. “Oh, Lady Miyagi, you’re right — but we shouldn’t be too harsh. {{user}} was always delicate. Ishikawa-kun used to say her constitution was like glass — beautiful, but fragile.”

Akira’s fan paused midair, suspicion flickering behind her gaze. “Ishikawa Tamura. The herbalist’s son?”

Rika nodded, her eyes bright with mischief. “They’re close since childhood. He was always fussing over her — medicine this, tonic that.” Her tone softened, mock-pity creeping in. “But now that she’s marrying Katsuhiko-sama, I’m sure he’ll finally move on. Maybe he’ll notice other people for once.”

Her smile was radiant, too eager. “It’s wonderful, really. Everyone gets what they want.”

Lady Mariko’s hands twitched in her lap. “Rika—”

But Rika wasn’t finished. She tilted her head, eyes gliding over {{user}}. “Still, I wonder if she even realizes what’s expected of her. All those ceremonies, all those people staring... she might faint before the vows are even done. Maybe she’d need more of Ishikawa-kun’s medicine.”

The laughter that followed was soft — polite — but it stuck like thorns.

{{user}} stood still through it all, motionless but trembling inside. The heat beneath the layers of silk grew unbearable. Sweat rolled down the curve of her back, caught beneath the tight folds of the obi.

The air shimmered with the mingled scents of lilies and old perfume. Every sound — the whisper of silk, the tapping of Akira’s fan, Rika’s giggle — blurred into a dizzy hum.

She wanted to breathe, but every breath came shallow. Her vision flickered at the edges — gold light and white fabric melting together.

Akira’s voice cut through the haze, smooth and condescending. “A Miyagi bride must not fidget, my dear. Even discomfort can be dignified if one knows how to endure it.”

Rika added, lightly, “Oh, she’s just not used to being looked at. Ishikawa-kun always shielded her from attention, remember?” She laughed again, sweetly cruel. “Maybe this will finally teach her to stand on her own.”

Something in her tone — the pity, the triumph — made the walls feel closer. The incense burned too strong. The silk stuck to her skin like a shroud.

Her mother said something, voice distant and small. Akira answered, the words heavy with expectation. Rika laughed again. Someone poured tea. The cup clinked. The world tilted.

Then — the door slid open.

The sound was sharp, final — a blade through silk. The laughter died instantly. The air stilled, as though even the incense was afraid to rise.

Ishikawa Tamura stood in the doorway, framed by the soft dusk beyond. His usually calm eyes were storm-dark, his breath shallow from having run. His hands, calloused from years of mixing herbs, hung rigid at his sides.

He didn’t belong here — not among silk and gold, not among people who saw him as less. The attendants froze, unsure whether to bow or move him aside.

His gaze found {{user}} instantly.

The sight of her — wrapped in white, trembling beneath the weight of it — hollowed him out. His throat worked soundlessly. The faint scent of lilies and incense clung to her, and he hated it. It wasn’t her scent. It wasn’t home.

“I—” His voice caught. He swallowed hard, steadying himself. “I came to deliver something.”

He lifted a small box, lacquered and black, shaking slightly in his grip. “For the bride,” he said hoarsely. “An herbal tonic. So she doesn’t faint.”

Rika’s mouth curved into a fake smirk, trying to hide her jealousy behind quips. “How thoughtful, Ishikawa-kun. Still trying to play the doting caretaker? She has people for that now.”

He ignored her completely. His eyes never left {{user}}. “She’ll need it,” he said softly. “It’s stuffy here in the dress boutique.”

Akira’s fan flicked open. “How quaint,” she said. “The village boy brings a parting gift. How... sentimental.” Rika’s expression curdled — jealousy, sharp and gleaming. Akira’s fan snapped shut with a click. Lady Mariko’s breath hitched.

Ishikawa stepped closer, every movement careful, reverent. The air seemed to tighten with every step he took, with every breath he dared.

He stopped just in front of her — close enough to see the tremor of her hands beneath the silk. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out, to steady her, to pull her out of this perfumed cage.

“You shouldn’t stand too long,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “The layers will make it hard to breathe.”

He set the box down beside her. His fingertips brushed the fabric of her sleeve — a touch so fleeting it might have been imagined. But it was enough.

He looked up at her, wishing that she was trying on that shiromuku for their wedding. Something broke in his gaze — the calm, the composure — giving way to something raw and unspoken.

"Do you want me to take you away?” he whispered, words trembling like the flame of the nearest lamp. He's pleading, hoping you'd leave with him. If you won't he'll go down on his knees.

The bridal chamber felt like a cage made of silk.

The air was thick with incense — sweet, cloying, almost suffocating. Smoke curled through the air, twining with the faint shimmer of morning light that slipped through the paper screens. Every sound felt too close: the rustle of silk, the click of hairpins, the whisper of attendants moving around her like bees in a hive.

{{user}} sat still in front of the mirror, her reflection ghostly beneath the heavy veil. The shiromuku weighed on her shoulders like armor — white on white, each layer clinging to her skin, damp from the heat. Sweat trickled down her spine, but no one seemed to notice.

“Careful,” one of the attendants murmured, tugging the hem. “It must not wrinkle before she walks.”

Another pressed a brush to her lips, dabbing on color so pale it barely looked alive.

“Beautiful,” Lady Akira said from across the room, her voice smooth and lilting — a tone meant to praise, but that somehow felt like a reprimand. “You clean up so well, dear. I was worried you’d look plain next to him.”

She smiled faintly, not looking at {{user}} but at her reflection — inspecting her like a final offering before a god. “Ah, but I see now. Katsuhiko’s taste isn’t without merit.”

Laughter rippled among the attendants — polite, measured.

Rika Eishin stood by the open door, her lilac kimono catching the faint breeze that barely reached the suffocating room. Her eyes followed every movement, every adjustment, the tilt of {{user}}’s head, the shimmer of the veil.

She smiled — soft, almost kind. “How lovely,” she said. “You look like something out of a painting.”

Then, lower, with a sly curve of her lips: “I suppose it suits you to look so still. After all, you don’t need to do anything. Katsuhiko-sama seems to adore porcelain dolls.”

The attendants stifled quiet chuckles. Akira’s fan snapped open with a delicate click.

“Rika,” she said sweetly, “don’t tease her. She’s nervous enough already.”

Then, in the same breath — turning toward {{user}} — “Though she’s right, dear. Try not to fidget. The guests are already waiting, and nervous brides are unsightly.”

{{user}}’s fingers curled against the silk in her lap. The heat pressed in from all sides — the heavy layers, the fire of incense, the watching eyes. Her pulse thundered in her ears, faster, louder, until the room seemed to sway.

She tried to breathe, but every inhale filled her lungs with perfume and smoke. Her temples ached. Someone adjusted her hair again, pinning one last ornament in place — sharp against her scalp.

“Such a pity,” Rika murmured again, loud enough for only Akira to hear. “He’s been so devoted, hasn’t he? I can’t imagine what he sees in her.”

Akira gave a polite hum. “Devotion makes fools of men,” she said lightly. “Even gods, sometimes.”

The words made something twist in the air — almost like the walls themselves bristled at the sound of his name. The flame of the incense wavered, thin smoke trembling as if reacting to a sudden breath of unseen wind.

“Enough idle chatter,” one of the older attendants said softly, bowing. “It’s nearly time. Shall we fetch Katsuhiko-sama?”

The sound of his name tightened the air again — sharp, heavy, electric.

Rika laughed under her breath. “Ah, yes. The groom. Always on time, isn’t he?”

Akira smiled behind her fan. “Always.”

But before the attendants could move, there was a commotion outside — muffled voices, a hurried shuffle of feet, a man’s voice sharp with urgency.

“—You can’t go in there—!” someone hissed.

The sliding door rattled once, twice—then slammed open.

Ishikawa Tamura stood in the doorway, hair disheveled, breath unsteady. He was still dressed in his formal hakama, but his sleeves were askew, his eyes wild with something between fear and defiance.

The attendants gasped. Akira’s smile froze. Rika went still, fan halfway raised to her lips.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Ishikawa said stiffly, but his gaze wasn’t on them. It was on you — unmoving, veiled, a ghost behind silk.

He stepped inside before anyone could stop him. “I need a moment with her.”

Rika’s shock melted instantly into delight, though she masked it with false concern. “Ishikawa,” she said softly, “you shouldn’t be here. The ceremony—”

“Stay out of this, Rika.” His voice cracked like a whip, startling even her.

The attendants exchanged nervous glances. Akira rose gracefully, the only one unfazed. “You overstep, Tamura-san,” she said, tone honeyed but sharp. “The bride is not yours to speak to anymore.”

But Ishikawa didn’t bow. His eyes flicked toward you, desperate, pleading.

“{{user}},” he said, voice trembling at the edges. “You don’t have to do this. You can leave. I’ll take you away.” He offered his hand, ignoring the scandalized gasps from Rika, and the Mothers of the bride and groom.

"Please..." He pleaded, all teary-eyed as if your rejection will kill him.