The first weak rays of sunlight crept through the thin curtains, painting pale streaks across the small apartment. Sayuri groaned and buried her face in the thin blanket, wishing, for the hundredth time, that mornings could just not exist. Her body ached, every joint stiff from yesterday's work, but she forced herself upright. She had no choice. No one else was going to do it.
Another day of exhaustion, another pile of unpaid bills, another list of chores that didn't seem to get any smaller. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Cold wood bit at her bare feet. She shivered, rubbing them on the rug, which didn't help much. Her fingers lingered on the edges of the rug, tracing the worn fibers, almost seeking comfort in something so ordinary.
The faucet in the bathroom ran ice-cold water as she splashed her face. Dark circles had taken permanent residence beneath her eyes. She tugged at the strands of hair sticking to her cheeks. She stared at her reflection and thought, maybe I look like this every day. Maybe it's fine. Maybe not. She shrugged. Who would care anyway? She examined her eyes for signs of weakness, for the smallest hint of vulnerability that someone might notice if she crossed paths with the wrong person.
"You have to keep going," she whispered to herself. "Mother needs this. We need this." She wasn't sure who she was convincing more, her mother or herself. Her hand brushed against the edge of the sink. The cold porcelain felt grounding, almost familiar, as if it whispered silently, reminding her to keep moving.
A soft cough echoed from the kitchen. Itsuko. Her chest tightened. She moved quickly, careful not to let her exhaustion show. Every step felt heavy, but every step was necessary.
"Good morning, mother," she said, helping her mother sit upright on the edge of the bed. Itsuko's skin was pale and fragile. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the teacup on the small table. Sayuri guided her gently to the chair by the window, smoothing the blanket over her shoulders. She lingered for a moment, letting her eyes follow the sunlight across her mother's face. The light made Itsuko appear almost ethereal, but even the glow could not hide the fragile lines that told a story of sickness, struggle, and resilience.
"Morning Sayuri," Itsuko said, her voice weak but warm. "Did you sleep well?"
Sayuri forced a small smile. "As well as anyone can with work waiting," she murmured. She handed her mother the medicine, watching carefully as Itsuko took it with quiet grace. "Take your time. I'll get breakfast ready."
The small kitchen smelled faintly of stale tea and old wood. Sayuri moved with precision: slicing bread, boiling water for tea, frying an egg in a small pan. Her hands were steady, but her mind wandered. Another week of cleaning jobs stretched ahead. Coins in her purse would never feel enough. Rent, bills, medicine she went over the numbers again in her head. Maybe if I skip lunch for a week, maybe no, that's stupid. She hesitated briefly, imagining the hunger she'd feel, the empty gnaw of her stomach, and pushed the thought aside. There were worse things than hunger. There always were.
Itsuko coughed again, softer this time. Sayuri placed a hand on her mother's shoulder, pressing gently. She remembered how long it had been since her mother had been well. Each day brought small victories, like a stronger grip on the teacup or a fleeting smile, and yet every day carried new fears. What if it got worse tomorrow? Or next week? Her chest tightened at the thought, a hollow ache she could not ignore. She forced herself to focus.
Breakfast done, Itsuko resting quietly, Sayuri grabbed her worn cleaning bag. She glanced at her shoes. Scuffed, frayed, like everything else she owned. She tugged the laces until they were tight. Every day she walked miles. Every day she scrubbed floors, polished counters, carried dust and dirt away. And every day it felt like nothing was enough. She paused briefly, watching her reflection in the cracked mirror near the door. The girl staring back looked tired beyond her years, yet there was a spark she could not extinguish. Survival was stubborn that way.
The city greeted her as she stepped outside. The morning smelled of damp asphalt, faint exhaust from passing cars, and the subtle sweetness of bread from a corner bakery. People moved past her quickly, oblivious. She almost wanted to vanish into the gray, to just disappear. But she could not. Not today. Not ever. She walked with careful steps, counting the cracks in the sidewalk beneath her feet. She imagined that if she could just keep track of them, she could keep control of the rest of her life too.
A sleek black car stopped outside a mansion across the street. The driver stood stiffly, waiting. Sayuri caught glimpses of crystal chandeliers and polished marble. She froze for a heartbeat. The house was too clean, too perfect, too impossible. She should not be noticing it. It was none of her business. She shook her head. Focus. Bills. Itsuko. Nothing else.
A gust of wind picked up, scattering cherry blossom petals across the street. They twirled, soft and fragile, like confetti. Sayuri frowned. Why did everyone love these flowers so much? She clenched her fists. Life was fleeting. Fragile. Cruel. And here she was, walking through it, barely holding on.
At her first client's apartment, she paused outside the door, taking a steadying breath. Inside, the faint smell of expensive perfume hit her. She stepped in carefully and froze. Polished floors, crystal chandeliers, walls that gleamed. She had never seen anything like it, and a small, irrational fear prickled in her stomach.
A whisper floated from a side room. "Watch the new girl. She's skilled, but she's different."
Sayuri did not look. She focused on her work. Dust, sweep, scrub. Routine was comforting. Predictable. Safe. Almost.
She paused near a window, watching dust motes float in the sunlight. Her mind wandered, as it always did, to the mansion across the street, to the black car, to the unseen presence inside. Someone powerful, someone dangerous. She shivered. Focus. Bills. Medicine. Mother.
The breeze scattered petals at her feet. One landed on her hand. She stared at it. For a brief moment, she imagined someone watching her quietly, someone who could change everything. She closed her eyes, almost afraid of the thought. Then she shook her head. No. Not yet. No time for dreams. Survival came first.
And somewhere, behind the walls of the mansion, someone had already noticed her.