Chapter 3: Bubbles

Haruka fell silent, retreating into the quiet confines of his own personal cage. The world outside the car window became a blur of motion and light, none of it touching him.

Fujiwara Yukina, too, seemed to have lost interest in their conversation. She leaned back against the plush leather, a portrait of serene indifference, though the slight, persistent upward curve of her lips suggested a private satisfaction.

Time dissolved into the low hum of the engine. The car drove for what felt like an eternity, nearly an hour, yet their destination remained elusive, somewhere beyond the endless ribbon of asphalt.

Exhausted, Haruka closed his eyes. In the hazy, liminal space between waking and sleeping, he felt something soft press against his back. He pulled the object forward. It was a small, square pillow, covered in silk. There had been no pillow before he drifted off, which meant she must have placed it there while he slept.

Haruka turned his head to look at her.

She was resting, her own eyes closed. As if sensing his gaze through her eyelids, her long eyelashes fluttered, like the tender branches of a young tree in spring, gently shaking off the last dusting of snow.

Holding the pillow, a small, warm weight in his hands, Haruka couldn’t help but think how impossibly beautiful she was. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words barely disturbing the air.

The fluttering stopped.

Yukina remained perfectly still. After a long, charged moment, she opened her eyes, her wine-red gaze clear and direct. “We’re here.”

As if on cue, the car glided to a silent halt. One of the suited men materialized outside and opened the door.

Haruka followed her out, his eyes taking in the surroundings. They were in a large, paved motor court. Four other cars were parked there, all of them expensive luxury models that gleamed under the afternoon sun, though they had the distinguished air of being a few years old. The court was flanked by meticulously manicured flowerbeds, planted with vibrant, unfamiliar blossoms that saturated the air with a thick, heady fragrance.

In the distance, a massive, opulent villa loomed against the sky, a blend of Western architecture and traditional Japanese aesthetics. Haruka felt as if he had stepped through a television screen, into a private manor he had only ever seen in dramas.

Yukina was speaking quietly with a uniformed maid. Suddenly, she pointed a slender, imperious finger at Haruka. “See to him. He needs to be made presentable.”

She walked over to him, her heels clicking softly on the stone. “Listen carefully,” she said, her voice a low whisper. “Tonight, the family is gathering. Everyone who matters will be here. This is your one chance to make an impression.”

Haruka considered this, the information settling like a stone in his stomach. “What do I need to do?”

Yukina looked at his young, yet unnervingly determined face and let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Don’t be too clever, little bird.”

“Huh?” Haruka blinked, not understanding her meaning, but she had already turned and walked away, a graceful, untouchable figure moving toward the grand entrance.

“Please follow me,” the maid said, her voice polite but distant. She led the way.

Haruka trailed behind her, his worn sneakers sinking into a lawn so soft it felt like velvet, before stepping onto a winding path of smooth, cool river stones that massaged the soles of his feet through his thin shoes.

The maid couldn’t help but steal glances at the boy. There was something unnervingly calm about him. Any other child his age, plucked from poverty and dropped into such overwhelming luxury, would be buzzing with restless energy, asking a thousand questions. But Haruka simply followed, maintaining a small, respectful distance. It wasn’t the sullen quietness of a withdrawn child, nor was there any obvious fear in his eyes. It was a deep, unsettling stillness.

Haruka noticed her furtive observations. He didn’t feel awkward or exposed; instead, he offered her a small, natural smile.

A faint blush crept up the maid’s neck. She quickly looked away, thinking to herself how handsome he already was. He’ll be a heartbreaker one day.

But then, she remembered who he was, and her fleeting admiration curdled into a familiar, weary pity. The illegitimate son of a mistress.

Worse still, his father had been dead for three years. In essence, Haruka had no real connection to the Fujiwara family anymore. For a clan that prized its reputation above all else, Haruka was nothing more than a living, breathing scandal. A stain to be quietly scrubbed away.

If she wasn’t mistaken, he would be “handled” soon. His small body would become another secret sunk deep in the murky waters of Tokyo Bay. For the ruthless Fujiwaras, such an act was not only thinkable, it was practical.

The maid, who knew just enough of the house’s dark undercurrents, felt her pity shift into a quiet sorrow. She quickened her pace, putting a little more distance between them, as if afraid his bad luck were contagious.

Haruka saw it all—the maid’s small, fearful adjustments. His mind was a sharp, sensitive instrument, and in that instant, he understood a great deal. Yet, his expression remained unchanged. He simply took a step back himself, graciously maintaining the distance she had created.

He followed the maid into the residence through a back entrance rarely used by the family. His hand trailed along a banister carved from rich, dark rosewood as they ascended a flight of stairs.

The maid opened a bathroom door. “If you would please leave your clothes by the door… I will place clean ones out for you,” she said softly. “The button on the wall is for service, should you require anything.”

Haruka nodded.

The maid bowed her head and retreated, pulling the door quietly shut.

He shed his worn clothes, leaving them in a small, neat pile by the door, and stepped inside. The room was bathed in the gentle, orange glow of a small lamp, creating an unexpected sense of warmth and intimacy. The bathroom was enormous, like a private onsen. Steam rose from a sunken pool in the center, delicate white flower petals floating on its surface. It was clearly a bathroom designed for and used by a woman.

Haruka felt a pang of unease, a feeling of being an intruder. He had never bathed in such a magnificent place; he had never even had the luxury of a simple bathtub or a proper shower. He washed himself under a cold tap, at best attaching a simple hose. In the summer, it was bearable. In winter, he had to wait for the brief warmth of midday, and even then, the cold would leave him shivering so violently his teeth chattered.

It was only when he grew a little older, a little stronger, that he could finally lift the heavy iron pot of heated water and carefully pour it into a large plastic bucket. But before he could wash himself, he first had to sponge-bathe his ailing mother, her skin growing thinner and more fragile with each passing day.

Haruka carefully dipped a small foot into the pool, testing the water. It was perfectly warm. He slowly submerged himself, the water embracing him like a silken shroud. It wasn’t deep, coming up just below his chest. He sat on a smooth stone bench built into the edge of the pool, and the water rose to his neck.

He took a deep breath, the warm, fragrant steam caressing his face. For a moment, he felt a sense of weightlessness, as if he were floating free of his own body. On the floor beside the pool, a new bar of soap and a bottle of expensive-looking shampoo sat waiting. He had never used shampoo before.

Haruka squeezed a little into his palm, added some water, and began to slowly work it into his short, dark hair.

The foam in his hands was like the memories in his mind, bubbling up one after another, fragile and ephemeral.

He had learned to bathe by himself at a very young age, but he still liked to pretend he couldn’t get his hair clean, just to trick his mother into washing it for him. He loved the feeling of her hands, rough as they were with work, rubbing his scalp. It was only then, in those fleeting, precious moments, that he could feel the rare, undiluted tenderness she was capable of giving.

The bubbles of memory were rinsed away by the clear, warm water.

Haruka opened his eyes, and a single, hot tear slid down his cheek.

At twelve years old, in the silent, steamy solitude of this opulent bathroom, Yukishiro Haruka finally, truly, understood the vast, empty concept of death.

Mama can never wash my hair for me again.

The thought broke him. The tears began to flow freely, a silent, unstoppable stream. He had been numb in the hospital, a cold, hard stone when he was supposed to grieve. Instead, the tears came now, in this trivial, unrelated moment. He was too smart for his own good; he knew he couldn’t show weakness in front of the Fujiwaras. This was the only safe place to fall apart.

He stood up, his tears mingling with the water dripping from his body, creating tiny, concentric ripples on the surface of the pool. He looked at his wavering reflection and remembered the maid’s fearful retreat. His precocious mind pieced together the grim, unspoken truth of his situation.

His father was dead. He had no real ties to this family. If even a servant was afraid to be near him, what could he expect from the masters of the house? His very existence was an unsightly stain on their pristine family tapestry. And what if Yukina did show him a flicker of capricious concern? Could she truly stand against her entire family for his sake?

Haruka could see his future laid out before him, a dark and narrow path. Staring at his reflection, he imagined his mother’s hands gently touching his neck, pressing his head down into the water’s warm embrace.

A frantic, desperate thought flared in his mind, a seductive whisper. If I just slip under the water and don’t come back up, in a few minutes, I’ll see Mama again, won’t I?

He was already alone in the world, unmoored, with nothing to hold onto. Now, his only anchor was gone. What was the point of living?

He was about to plunge his head into the water, to surrender, but then the image of his mother, her face contorted as she coughed up blood, flashed before his eyes. He heard her last words, a ragged, desperate command spoken with her final breath: “…Haruka, be strong.”

Haruka stared at his own hands, small and pale in the dim light, lost in thought for a long, long, long time.

He forced down the suffocating grief, washed his body with a detached efficiency, and stepped out of the pool. By the time he had dried himself and walked to the door, the tears had finally stopped.

Haruka pressed the button on the wall and whispered into the silence, his voice a ghost only he could hear, “Mama, I’ve finished washing my hair.”