The mansion was silent.
Lanterns in the garden cast long shadows through the shōji doors, the soft orange glow painting the tatami floor of my room. The air smelled faintly of pine and cedar, drifting in from the forest that surrounded the estate.
I sat at the low desk by the window, notebook open, pen balanced in my hand. But the page was empty.
My mind wasn't.
The dinner with Grandmother Sumire lingered in my chest not the taste of the food, but her eyes. Sharp, calm, unshaken. The way she looked at me as if peeling away layers I didn't even know I had.
She hadn't pressed me with questions. She didn't need to. That was the terrifying part.
A soft knock came at my door.
I turned. "Come in."
The door slid open with a muted rasp, and there she was. Dressed now in a more casual dark yukata, her long hair loosened and flowing over her shoulders, yet her posture remained as straight as before. Even in something simple, she radiated command.
"You're not sleeping," she said. Not a question an observation.
"No," I admitted.
She stepped inside, sliding the door shut behind her, and walked over to the desk. Her movements were graceful, each step deliberate. She stopped across from me and studied the blank notebook.
"Writing?"
"Trying to."
She folded her hands behind her back, tilting her head slightly. "You've always been like this. Sitting alone, lost in thought. Your father was the same at your age."
I stayed silent.
Her gaze hardened. "Haruto… you can fool your parents. You can fool your friends. But don't think for a second you can fool me. I've built empires reading people's faces. And your face is screaming."
The pen in my hand trembled. "…What do you think it's screaming?"
"That you're hiding a wound," she said plainly. "Not on your body. Deeper. One you refuse to show anyone. You're carrying something alone, and you think if you just grit your teeth hard enough, no one will see it."
Her words cut close too close.
I lowered my gaze. "…And if I am?"
She walked to the window, looking out at the lantern-lit garden. "Then I'll tell you this: there are two types of people who carry wounds in silence. The weak, who crumble under them. And the strong, who sharpen them into blades."
Her reflection in the glass shifted as she looked back at me. "Which one will you be, Haruto?"
The weight of her words pressed on me harder than any scolding my mother had ever given, harder than the silence of my father. Sumire wasn't asking to know—she was challenging me to decide.
I clenched the pen tighter. "I… don't know yet."
"That's fine." She turned back to the garden. "You're young. But time won't wait for you to decide. It will keep moving whether you crumble or sharpen. That's why I brought you here. To give you space to decide."
Her voice softened, just a fraction. "This house will shield you. No one will disturb you here. Use it. Heal, or prepare. But don't waste the days."
I exhaled slowly. "…Grandmother."
"Hm?"
"Why are you being so kind to me? You don't even live with us. You don't see me every day. Why go this far?"
She paused, her back to me, shoulders straight. When she finally answered, her voice was steady, but underneath it was something almost imperceptible.
"Because strength doesn't grow in comfort. It grows in storms. And I see a storm in your eyes, Haruto. If I leave you to weather it alone, it will either kill you… or turn you into something unrecognizable. I refuse to let either happen."
I swallowed, throat dry.
She turned at last, her expression unreadable. "Rest. Don't force words you aren't ready to say. When you're prepared to speak, I'll listen. Until then, sharpen."
With that, she slid the door open and stepped out, leaving the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
The room felt heavier after she left.
I stared at the blank notebook again, her words echoing: crumble or sharpen.
My hand moved on its own. I began to write.
Midnight :
The house was silent. The kind of silence that pressed into your ears until you could hear your own heartbeat.
My notebook was no longer empty. Pages filled with hurried scribbles, arrows, and names.
Souta.
Miyuki.
Mother.
Fragments. Small things that didn't add up before.
Miyuki smiling too brightly when Souta walked into the room.
The way Souta brushed her shoulder when he thought no one was looking.
The quiet glances exchanged between my mother and Souta at gatherings.
The silence that always followed when I walked in unexpectedly.
They weren't proof. Not yet. But they were threads. And if I pulled hard enough, the mask would come off.
I closed my eyes, leaning back, letting the fragments swirl in my head.
That voice returned, low and jagged, like chains grinding against stone.
"Fragments of memory will return to you, Haruto Kurogane … as you become worthy of my help."
I gritted my teeth, clutching the pen tighter. Worthy. That word wasn't a promise it was a test.
I forced myself to remember more. The way Miyuki sometimes ignored my texts but instantly replied to Souta. The faint smell of cologne not mine on her sleeve. My mother's subtle defense of Souta whenever I complained about him.
At the time, I thought I was paranoid. Now, I wasn't so sure.
The pen snapped in my grip. Ink bled across my fingers.
I didn't care.
I whispered into the empty room. "Fine. Fragments or not, I'll gather them myself. I'll make them choke on the truth."
The lantern outside flickered. The shadows on the wall seemed to stretch, like claws reaching closer.
But I didn't flinch.
For the first time in years, my resolve was sharper than the fear.
I turned the page, pressing harder with my new pen, scribbling names, patterns, possibilities. Every stroke was a promise.
Outside, the wind howled through the cedar trees. Inside, the only sound was the relentless scratching of my pen.
Fragments. Memories. Suspicion. Evidence.
It would all come together.
And when it did…
I would no longer be the weak Haruto Kurogane they thought I was.
I would be their judgment.
The clock struck 2:00 AM.
My eyes burned, but I didn't stop writing.
Because in the silence of the mansion, in the weight of the night, I remembered Valkyrie's words once more:
"Fragments of memory will reach you as time passes… when you become worthy of my help."
And as I pressed harder into the notebook, connecting every thread, I whispered to myself:
"I'll become worthy. No matter what it takes."
The ink smeared. My fingers ached. My chest burned.
But I kept writing.
Because this was no longer just about revenge.
This was about becoming sharper.
Unbreakable.
And ready.