The Nishina estate had not changed.
It rose before Rin in gleaming silence, every white wall scrubbed spotless, every hedge carved into sharp obedience, the windows gleaming as though polished every morning. The place was as she remembered—perfect, proper, and suffocating.
Funny, she thought, how she had once longed for this sight while stranded on the island. The comfort of her own bed. The polished floors. Familiar walls and familiar voices. Now, standing in front of it, Rin felt an ache in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
The car door opened. A half dozen servants bowed in unison. Her shoes hit the gravel, and the sound seemed too loud, too sharp after months of stepping on sand and soil.
Her mother broke first.
"Rin!" The woman flew from the entryway with uncharacteristic abandon, silk kimono sleeves flaring. Her steps were uneven, graceless, and Rin was reminded absurdly of her mother chasing her as a child in the garden—before responsibilities had hardened her features into porcelain.
She collided into Rin with such force that Rin staggered back. The scent of lavender perfume clung to her mother's embrace, sweet but choking compared to the wild salt air Rin had grown used to.
"My Rin," her mother sobbed, clutching her tightly. "My daughter, my precious girl."
For once, Rin did not protest the fuss. She let herself be held, awkwardly patting her mother's back, her throat tight.
Her father stood in the doorway. He had not moved. He had not even blinked. Hands behind his back, jaw clenched, he stared at Rin as if struggling to confirm she was truly before him.
"You're alive," he said at last. The words were flat, controlled, and yet Rin heard the faint crack in them.
"Yes, Father," Rin answered, her voice lighter than she felt. She tilted her head, forcing a crooked smile. "Contrary to what I'm sure the tabloids speculated, I haven't been eaten by sharks."
A cough disguised as a laugh came from one of the maids. Her father's glare silenced it instantly.
And then chaos erupted. Her mother demanded explanations Rin could not give, her father barked sharp questions about the coast guard and the reports, servants pressed too close with questions and bags Rin hadn't packed, voices echoing like a hundred gulls all screaming at once.
Rin's chest tightened. After so many months of silence broken only by waves and birds and Hayate's calm voice, the sound was unbearable.
She wriggled free of her mother's arms. "I'll make tea," she said loudly.
The words fell into the air like stones.
Her father frowned. "You'll… what?"
"Tea," Rin repeated. She lifted her chin and marched toward the wide double doors
The kitchen staff nearly dropped their utensils when Rin burst through the door.
"Miss Rin!" the head cook exclaimed, flour dusting her apron. "You—please, sit. You must rest."
Rin waved her off, rolling up her sleeves. "Relax. I'm only making tea. And maybe a little miso soup. Rice, if you've got it. Where's the rice?"
The kitchen froze.
One servant whispered, "Did she… hit her head?"
Another muttered, "She's possessed."
"Neither," Rin snapped, already rummaging through cupboards. "I've just decided to be functional. Terrifying, I know."
The head cook wrung her hands. "Miss Rin, please, allow us—"
"Not proper? Not expected?" Rin grabbed a knife and a cucumber, brandishing them both. "Do I look like I care?"
Her grip slipped almost immediately, and the knife nicked her thumb. "Ow!" She shoved it into her mouth, glaring at the cucumber. "Traitor."
The staff hovered, half ready to tackle her for her own safety.
By the time Rin carried the tray into the dining room, her thumb was bandaged clumsily with a strip of cloth. On the tray: three bowls of rice, slightly burned at the bottom; a teapot with steaming miso soup that looked too thin; and cucumber slices of wildly uneven thickness.
She set it on the table with dramatic flourish. "Voilà. Survival Cuisine à la Rin."
Her mother gasped softly, hands pressed to her lips. Her father muttered, "Impossible."
Rin plopped into her seat, beaming. "Eat it while it's still edible."
She didn't expect them to try, but her mother, bless her, scooped a cautious spoonful of rice. Her eyes widened. "It's… edible," she said in astonishment.
Rin's grin widened. "Exactly the review I was aiming for."
Her father did not eat. He stared at the steaming bowls as though they were poisoned. But Rin, unbothered, shoveled rice into her mouth with the efficiency of a woman who had once lived off coconuts.
"Rin," her father finally said, his voice sharp, "what has happened to you?"
Rin chewed slowly, swallowed, and offered her most radiant smile. "I learned how not to starve."
Her mother almost choked on her soup.
"Months without contact, your name on every headline, our family reputation questioned, and this—this is your response?" her father snapped, his composure unraveling.
Rin tapped her chopsticks against the bowl thoughtfully. "Do you know how hard it is to build a fire with damp wood, Father? You'd respect me more if you did."
Her mother's shoulders shook with laughter she tried to hide behind her sleeve. The head maid coughed to cover her grin.
Her father looked as though a blood vessel might burst. "You shame yourself with these antics."
"Or," Rin countered, "I've discovered life outside of crystal chandeliers and silver spoons. Shocking, I know."
For a long moment, silence reigned. Then, slowly, her mother placed her chopsticks down and spoke softly. "She smiles differently now."
Rin froze.
It was true. Her smile had changed. It no longer carried the strain of politeness. It wasn't the mask she had worn at banquets and family gatherings. It was real, imperfect, crooked—like the smiles she'd exchanged with Hayate by a smoky driftwood fire.
She looked down quickly, heat rising in her cheeks. "I'm finished. Thank you for the meal," she said, bowing her head before standing.
Her father tried to object, but her mother's hand pressed against his arm. "Let her rest."
And so Rin slipped away from the table, the scent of miso and charred rice still clinging to her hands.
Later that evening, she padded barefoot through the long hallways, the cool wood floorboards silent beneath her. She paused when she heard voices drifting from her parents' room.
"She's changed," her father muttered, his voice low but sharp. "Cooking, cleaning—nonsense. She was raised to manage, not to labor."
"She's grown," her mother answered gently. "For the first time, I see her happy."
"She's been corrupted," her father insisted. "Whoever that man was, whatever happened on that island—"
"Don't," her mother interrupted softly. "You saw her eyes. She's not broken. She's alive."
Rin's throat tightened. She pressed her back against the wall, eyes stinging. They didn't understand. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But she wasn't the fragile ornament they remembered. She was more. And part of her hated that they could not see it.
The house grew quiet as the night deepened. Rin slipped outside to the veranda, craving air that wasn't perfumed with roses. The garden stretched before her in manicured lines, every flower too neat, every tree tamed into submission. She sank onto the steps, hugging her knees to her chest, her hair tumbling loosely around her face.
The moon was high, silver and cold. Its glow spilled across the hedges, but Rin's mind betrayed her—painting over them with tangled vines and wild palms, with the memory of fireflies drifting above Hayate's steel home.
She lifted her hands, studying her palms. They still bore faint scars—thin white lines from chopping coconuts, red marks from weaving rope, the uneven roughness of callouses. Her nails, once polished weekly, were shorter now, unpolished, natural. Proof she had lived.
She exhaled, soft and shaky. "You'd laugh at me, Hayate," she whispered to the night.
The silence offered no reply.
But in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves stirred as though the island itself had followed her here, unwilling to let her go.
She closed her eyes and allowed herself, just for one fragile moment, to imagine him beside her again—the quiet way he had watched the waves, the way his lips curved when she blurted something foolish, the steady warmth of his presence.
Her lips trembled. Hayate… are you staring at the sea right now too? Or have you already left me behind?
The night was heavy with unspoken words.
And Rin, for the first time since she returned, let herself cry.