Aika Takamura was born on a snowy morning, the kind where Kyoto's rooftops wore silence like a shawl. The wind outside whistled low, as if trying not to wake her.
Her mother, Harue, named her Aika, love song, after the hush that fell over the room the moment she cried. It wasn't a loud cry. It was soft and trembling, as if even then she understood not all homes welcomed noise.
She was the only child of a low-ranking samurai, Takamura Itsuki.
A man more loyal than fortunate. Their home sat at the edge of a narrow lane near the city's quieter quarter, where gardens outnumbered shops and the neighbors' greetings lingered warmly in the air.
Her earliest memories were not of words, but of textures.
The scratch of her father's calloused palm as he held her tiny fingers.
The rustle of her mother's kimono as she knelt to grind tea.
The earthy scent of tatami mats warmed by morning light.
Aika grew like a blade of grass.
Quietly, gently, leaning always toward warmth.
As a little girl, she loved to press her ear against her father's chest when he returned from guard duty. His heartbeat was slow and deep, a sound that made her feel the world had rhythm, that it could be trusted. He would lift her into the crook of his arm, whispering tales of mountains and warriors, always ending with:
"Strength is not in the sword, Aika. It is in the hands that choose when not to use it."
Her mother, by contrast, spoke rarely but held long silences like pearls.
Carefully, with grace. It was from her that Aika learned how to serve tea without spilling, how to step without creaking a floorboard, and how to smile with the corners of her eyes even when her heart felt still.
But all seasons turn.
The year Aika turned seven, a dispute over rice land ended in bloodshed. Her father, sent to guard a storehouse not his own, never returned. His name was recorded on a ledger, alongside compensation that never came.
Harue fell into debt before the snow returned.
Their roof began to leak.
The neighbors stopped lingering.
Aika, still too young to understand the weight of money, began to notice how her mother's eyes grew distant. She stopped humming while cooking.
The hairpin her father had once given her.
Carved like a plum blossom.
Disappeared from her bun.
Aika asked where it had gone.
Her mother only said, "To someone who needed it more."