Kunikuzushi

The wrought-iron gates of the estate loomed tall and indifferent against the gray afternoon sky, just as imposing as the day you left them three years ago.

Your boots were worn, your hands calloused from three excruciating years of forced labor and poverty on foreign soil. When you first boarded that ship, your heart had been full of hope and big dreams to see the world.

Kunikuzushi had supported your ambition, even as his dark, sorrowful violet eyes betrayed the deep longing and fear of losing you. At the docks, wrapped in a final, breathless embrace, you had promised to send him letters every single day so he would never feel lonely or forgotten. As the vessel pulled away from the harbor, you stood at the railing waving goodbye, watching his slender figure shrink into the distance.

For the first two weeks, everything went as promised. You exchanged letters faithfully across the sea. But by the fourth week, your letters were met with total silence. You kept writing, week after week, month after month, getting increasingly anxious and heartbroken as no replies came. What you didn't know was that on the other side of the world, Kunikuzushi was suffering the exact same silence, frantically wondering if some terrible tragedy had befallen you.

The cruel truth was that you were both victims of a silent betrayal.

Kunikuzushi's mother, Raiden Ei—a cold, calculating woman who had always disapproved of his relationship with a common dreamer—was the mastermind behind it all.

She intercepted every single letter you sent and burnt them to gray ash before they could ever reach her son's hands. As a brutal war broke out in the country you were staying in, trapping you in forced labor with no way to make money or leave, Ei seized the opportunity. She fed her grieving son subtle poisons of doubt, convincing him that you had either perished in the conflict or simply abandoned him for a new life.

For two agonized years, Kunikuzushi resisted his mother's attempts to arrange a new marriage for him, holding onto the faint, dying hope that you might return. But as time bled on and the silence stretched into years, the weight of his grief finally broke him.

Heartbroken and feeling utterly betrayed, he accepted that you were never coming back.

It was during this dark period that Lumine entered his life—a noblewoman of grace, poise, and profound compassion who was mourning the loss of her own twin brother in the same foreign war. Bound by their shared grief, a gentle comfort bloomed between them.

Though he hesitated on their wedding night, haunted by the ringing memory of his first love, Kunikuzushi eventually surrendered to the reality of his new life. He fell in love with Lumine, gave his devotion to her, and built a peaceful home filled with the laughter of children.

Meanwhile, your love had never wavered. Through three grueling years of war, poverty, and backbreaking labor, the thought of Kunikuzushi was the sole anchor that drove you forward.

And you knew none of his new life—until your boots touched the cobblestones of your hometown an hour ago.

The shock on the townsfolk's faces when you walked into town had been chilling. The rumors had hit you like a physical blow—your aunt's tear-stained face as she sorrowfully delivered the news of Kunikuzushi's marriage... you hadn't believed a single word. You had run through the streets, breathless and terrified, clawing at the heavy iron gates of his estate, begging the guards to let you in.

"Move along, stranger!" the guard snapped, shoving your weak frame back into the gravel. "Lord Kunikuzushi and Lady Lumine are returning from the conservatory. The master does not take unannounced visitors!"

Before you could scream his name, the crisp, rhythmic clatter of horse hooves and wooden wheels echoed down the grand driveway.

A pristine black-and-gold carriage pulled to a smooth halt just inside the courtyard gates.

Your voice caught in your throat. You froze, clutching the cold iron bars, your knuckles turning white as the carriage door was opened by a uniformed footman.

From within the plush velvet interior stepped Kunikuzushi.

He looked breathtakingly noble—dressed in a fine indigo waistcoat, a silver family crest pinned over his lapel. The sharp, lonely sorrow that used to define his features was gone, replaced by a soft, mature contentment. He turned back toward the carriage, extending a slender, elegant hand to help a fair-haired woman step down. Lumine smiled up at him with deep affection, her posture graceful and light.

Immediately, the light sound of high-pitched laughter broke through the quiet courtyard.

Two small children tumbled out of the carriage after her, clutching wooden toys and giggling as they wrapped themselves around Kunikuzushi's legs.

Kunikuzushi let out a low, genuine chuckle—a sound you hadn't heard in years—as he bent down to scoop his youngest daughter into his arms, adjusting her coat while Lumine gently straightened his collar. They looked like a picture of absolute, unbroken domestic perfection.

Your breath hitched. A choked, broken gasp escaped your lips.

At the sound of the iron gate rattling, Kunikuzushi paused.

He casually turned his head toward the entrance, his violet eyes carrying a mild, polite curiosity—expecting to see a beggar or a messenger at the gates.

His eyes locked onto yours.

The world seemed to stop moving.

The low murmur of the servants, the rustle of the autumn leaves, the soft laughter of his wife—everything faded into an oppressive, suffocating silence.

The color drained from Kunikuzushi's face instantly, turning his skin as pale as marble.

The soft smile vanished from his lips, his breath hitching sharply in his chest as his arms rigidified around his daughter. His violet eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated terror and disbelief, staring at you—dirty, worn, and very much alive—standing at his gates like a ghost risen from the grave.