The mountain woke before I did.
When I stepped outside, dawn was still crawling up the sky, pale and uncertain. Mist laced through the courtyard like breath, winding around the wisteria branches that hung heavy with dew. For a moment, I thought I saw the faint shimmer of movement near the koi pond—a shape dissolving into the fog—but when I blinked, it was gone.
A crow cried once in the distance. Somewhere deeper in the forest, bamboo clicked softly in the wind.
The Mist Estate was larger than I had imagined. Long corridors connected clusters of sliding rooms, their roofs glistening with morning moisture. Everything was clean, ordered, and utterly quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ribs, waiting for you to break it first.
A servant bowed low as I passed. "Breakfast is served, my lady."
My lady.
The words didn't feel real.
I followed him into a tatami hall lit by narrow slivers of light. A single place had been set across from another. Bowls of rice, miso, and pickled vegetables sat untouched. Muichiro was already there.
He didn't look up when I entered. His chopsticks moved in a rhythm so precise it felt rehearsed.
"You're early," he said without tone or warmth, as though simply observing weather.
"I couldn't sleep," I admitted.
He hummed quietly—a sound that might have been acknowledgment or disinterest. His long hair framed his face, catching glints of silver from the light. There was nothing unkind about him, but nothing open either.
I sat opposite him, folding my hands in my lap. For a while, the only sounds were ceramic against wood and the soft whisper of wind outside.
"Are there rules I should know?" I asked at last.
He stopped moving. Slowly, he set his chopsticks down. "Rules?"
"For living here. With you."
Something flickered in his expression—curiosity, maybe. "There are a few," he said. "They're not written anywhere, but they matter."
He looked out the open shoji window before listing them, voice low and steady.
"First — never go beyond the east path after sundown. The fog there doesn't behave like normal mist."
"Second — if you hear the bell at night, don't answer it."
"Third — always keep a wisteria bloom near your door. It's for protection, not decoration."
He turned back to me, eyes unreadable. "If you can remember those, you'll be fine."
A small smile tried to form on my lips, half nervous. "And if I forget?"
"Then I'll remind you."
The words shouldn't have sounded like a promise, but something in his tone made my pulse quicken anyway.
We finished breakfast in silence. When he stood, I noticed the faint gleam of his sword hilt catching light at his hip. "I'll be gone for most of the day," he said. "There's a training field beyond the main house. Don't enter it unless you're called."
"I understand."
He paused by the door, glancing back only once. "Don't wander too far. The mist changes paths here. It doesn't like strangers."
And then he was gone.
The estate felt different without him in it.
Not emptier—just… quieter, in a heavier way.
I explored carefully, memorizing the layout so I wouldn't lose myself. The rooms were spare but beautiful: paper screens painted with mountains and cranes, polished wood that creaked softly with age. Everything smelled faintly of pine and wisteria.
In the west hall, I found a small garden enclosed by stone walls. A narrow bridge arched over a pond where koi drifted lazily beneath water lilies. I knelt to look closer, and something metallic glinted between the stones.
A hairpin.
Silver, carved with the same wisteria pattern that adorned the estate gates. I picked it up gently. It was old—tarnished near the edges—and cold enough to sting my fingertips.
When I turned it over, a thin inscription caught the light.
For the Bride of Mist.
The words made my breath hitch.
Was it meant for me? Or for someone before me?
A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, and the chime of the wind bells overhead trembled. The mist thickened slightly, curling against my ankles as though it had noticed me. I tucked the pin into my sleeve and stood.
Muichiro returned just before sunset. His haori was flecked with dew, his sword sheathed clean. He walked past me toward the engawa and sat, legs folded neatly beneath him.
"You wandered," he said without accusation.
"Yes," I admitted. "Only the west courtyard."
He nodded once, expression unreadable. "Did you find something?"
I hesitated. "A hairpin."
"Describe it."
"Silver. With wisteria carvings. There was an inscription—'For the Bride of Mist.'"
The faintest pause. He turned his head slightly, eyes unfocused. "I see."
"Was it yours?"
"No." His tone was clipped, final. "But it belonged here."
I wanted to ask more, but the look in his eyes stopped me. For the first time, I saw something beyond indifference there—something darker, like a thought he didn't want to think.
He stood suddenly. "Dinner will be ready soon."
"Muichiro—"
But he was already walking away.
That night, the wind carried whispers through the trees.
I sat near the window again, watching mist ripple across the garden. The hairpin lay beside my lantern, gleaming faintly. Its shadow stretched long and thin across the tatami.
I told myself not to think about the inscription. Not to think about the empty space beside me at breakfast, the distant tone in his voice, or the rules he'd given me.
Still, the silence felt alive. Listening. Waiting.
The first bell rang close to midnight.
It was faint, like a single drop falling into still water—but unmistakable. The sound didn't come from the village, nor from any shrine I knew. It was nearer.
I froze.
Once.
Then twice.
I remembered his rule.
If you hear the bell at night, don't answer it.
The instinct to look out the window nearly won, but fear pressed my back against the wall instead. I held my breath until the echo faded.
When I dared to move, I noticed something through the paper screen—a shadow outside, long and still. Not moving toward me, not away. Just standing there.
I whispered, "Muichiro?"
No answer.
The shadow tilted slightly, like a head turning.
The lantern flickered.
And then the sound—soft, deliberate—of footsteps retreating into the mist.
By the time I slid the door open, the garden was empty. Only wisteria petals drifted across the stones, pale as ghost breath.
At dawn, the world looked unchanged.
The mist glowed faintly gold around the edges of the estate. Birds sang like nothing had happened. I went to the pond, where water mirrored the morning sky.
The hairpin still rested in my sleeve. When I pulled it out, it was warmer than before—as if someone had held it through the night.
Muichiro appeared beside the wisteria archway, silent as ever. His expression was calm, but the usual distance had hardened into focus.
"You heard it," he said, not asking.
"Yes."
He looked toward the treeline. "And you didn't answer."
"No."
He nodded slowly, relief too subtle to name crossing his face. "Good."
He stepped closer, gaze flicking briefly to the hairpin in my hand. "Keep that hidden. It's not only an ornament."
"What is it, then?"
He met my eyes for the first time fully. "A mark."
"For what?"
His silence was answer enough.
He turned, mist curling around his ankles as he walked away. "Remember the rule," he said softly. "The bell calls only those who forget who they are."
When he disappeared into the fog again, the wisteria stirred like it had exhaled.
I stood there long after, clutching the silver pin against my chest, trying to ignore the echo of that sound that still rang in my ears—
one soft note that somehow felt like a promise and a warning both.