The Nishina estate had always run like a clockwork machine.
Breakfast was at seven sharp, laid out on polished silver trays. Maids bowed as they poured tea, their steps soundless on the marble. The family dined in silence broken only by the clink of porcelain.
Rin used to hate it.
Now she hated it even more.
On her second morning home, Rin padded into the kitchen barefoot, hair tied in a messy knot. The staff froze as though an intruder had broken in.
"Good morning!" Rin greeted brightly, tugging open the refrigerator. "I'm starving. What do we have?"
"Miss Rin—please, allow us—"
But Rin was already rummaging through shelves, triumphantly pulling out eggs, tomatoes, and a block of tofu. "Perfect. Omelet it is."
The head cook wrung his hands. "Miss, the chef has already prepared—"
"Prepared for who? Because I'm making breakfast for me." Rin cracked an egg into a bowl, wincing as half the shell tumbled in. She fished it out with her fingers. "See? I'm a natural."
The staff exchanged horrified glances.
By the time Rin carried her plate to the dining room, her mother and father were seated. Their gazes flicked from the perfect trays the staff had placed before them to Rin's uneven omelet, half burnt and half undercooked, proudly steaming on her plate.
Her father nearly dropped his teacup. "What on earth is that?"
"Food," Rin said, plopping into her seat. She took a huge bite and chewed with exaggerated satisfaction. "Delicious. Well, edible. A solid six out of ten."
Her mother's lips twitched. Her father looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.
Later that afternoon, Rin wandered outside to the garden, still restless. The grounds had always been pristine, every hedge trimmed into geometric perfection. It irritated her.
So she grabbed a trowel from the shed and knelt in the dirt, tugging weeds from between the roses. The gardener, spotting her, nearly fainted.
"Miss Rin! Please, you'll ruin your dress!"
"It's fine," Rin said, brushing hair from her face, sweat dotting her forehead. "Besides, roses look better wild. They're like me—more charming when unruly."
The gardener nearly dropped his shears. "Un…ruly?"
Her mother found her an hour later, streaked with dirt, hair tangled, grinning at her own crooked planting. Instead of scolding, her mother pressed a hand to her mouth, as if torn between horror and laughter.
Her father, upon hearing of it, demanded, "Is she possessed?"
Days passed in this rhythm. Rin insisted on cleaning her own room, folding her own laundry, even ironing her own clothes—badly. The servants hovered helplessly, unsure whether to intervene or allow their young mistress to continue her war against propriety.
At meals, she told stories about building fires, about weaving rope from vines, about burning fish until they resembled charcoal. Her mother listened, eyes bright. Her father scowled deeper each day.
But what stung Rin most was not his disapproval. It was the emptiness.
Every story she told had Hayate woven between the lines. The way he mocked her first attempt at spearfishing. The way he quietly handed her the last ripe mango without comment. The way he had looked at her under firelit shadows, words unsaid heavy in the air.
Here, in this house full of polished surfaces and careful silence, she could not say his name.
So she swallowed it.
But at night, lying in her massive bed that smelled of lavender detergent instead of salt and smoke, she whispered it into her pillow.
"Hayate…"
On the third night, her mother entered her room quietly, carrying a tray of tea.
"You've changed," she said softly, setting the cup on Rin's desk.
Rin stiffened. "Is that a problem?"
Her mother smiled faintly, smoothing Rin's hair like she had when Rin was a child. "Not for me."
"Father thinks I've lost my mind," Rin muttered.
"Your father worries in his own way. He doesn't understand, but… I can see it." Her mother's eyes softened. "You were lost, and now you've been found. That's enough."
Rin blinked quickly, her chest tight. "You're not… disappointed?"
Her mother chuckled. "Disappointed? Rin, I prayed you'd survive. I never prayed you'd return as the same girl. And thank heavens, you didn't."
Rin swallowed hard, blinking away heat in her eyes. For a moment, she leaned against her mother's shoulder, inhaling the faint perfume, softer now than before.
And in that moment, she allowed herself to believe she might survive this new storm too.
The press descended like vultures.
By the fourth day of her return, her name had already crawled across every newspaper headline and television ticker. Heiress Rin Nishina Returns After Mysterious Disappearance.Months Missing, Found Alive.Scandal or Miracle?
Her father tried to shield her, but reporters had sharp eyes and sharper tongues. They found ways to slip through gates, bribe servants, and corner her in corridors of her own home.
So the Nishinas agreed to a press conference.
The drawing room was arranged into a stage, velvet curtains pulled back, a neat table prepared with microphones. Her father sat in the center, imposing in his dark suit. Rin sat beside him, feeling like a bird dressed in the wrong feathers. Her mother sat gracefully on the other side, hands folded calmly.
The first question came quickly.
"Miss Nishina, how did you survive?"
Rin smiled sweetly. "Coconuts. And pure spite."
A ripple of laughter went through the reporters. Her father stiffened.
"Did you lose hope during your disappearance?" another asked.
"Of course not," Rin said smoothly. "There were birds to yell at, waves to argue with, and one very stubborn… island resident who refused to let me give up."
Her mind flinched at the name she didn't say. Hayate.
Her father's jaw clenched.
"Miss Nishina," a woman reporter leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "What was your first thought when you returned home?"
Rin didn't hesitate. "That my bed smelled too clean."
Her father shot her a warning glare. Her mother pressed her sleeve to her mouth to hide a laugh.
"Do you intend to return to society as before?"
Rin tilted her head, considering. "Well, I don't think I'll be hosting tea parties any time soon. But if you'd like me to teach you how to spear fish with a very sharp stick, I'm available for lessons."
The room erupted in murmurs and chuckles. Cameras flashed.
Her father pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Final question," a reporter said quickly before they were dismissed. "What is the greatest lesson you learned from your experience?"
Rin paused, this time thoughtful. The room quieted.
She remembered the storms, the hunger, the laughter around fires, the way her heart had beat painfully at Hayate's quiet smile. She drew in a slow breath.
"That I'm not the fragile porcelain doll everyone thought I was," she said softly. "And I never will be again."
The reporters scribbled furiously. Her father looked as though she had declared war. Her mother's gaze lingered on Rin with something like pride.
The press conference ended in chaos—flashes of cameras, shouted questions, guards struggling to keep order. Rin slipped away through the side door, her heart racing not from fear, but from exhilaration.
Her father caught her in the hall.
"Rin." His voice was cold. "What was that performance?"
Rin blinked at him innocently. "Honesty."
"You humiliated yourself."
She tilted her head. "Or maybe I impressed them."
His eyes narrowed. "Do you think survival excuses insolence?"
Her lips curved into a smile. "Do you think arrogance makes you right?"
His hand twitched, not to strike—he would never—but to restrain himself. Her mother appeared just then, touching his sleeve lightly.
"Enough," she murmured. "She's alive. Isn't that enough for now?"
He turned sharply, walking away.
Rin exhaled slowly, then glanced at her mother. "I don't think he'll ever see me the way you do."
Her mother's smile was faint, but sure. "Then let him learn. You don't need his permission to be yourself anymore."
Rin blinked, throat tight. Her mother rarely said such things, but now, the words felt like an anchor.
For the first time since returning, Rin smiled not out of habit or wit, but because she meant it
That night, Rin lay awake in her too-soft bed, staring at the ceiling. Her body ached not from exhaustion but from restlessness. Her hands itched for rope to braid, fires to tend, gardens to weed. She turned on her side, clutching her pillow.
The conference replayed in her head—the flashes, the questions, her own unfiltered answers. She had sounded bold, fearless. But inside, she had only thought of him.
The way he had handed her the last mango. The way his eyes softened when she teased him. The way he had walked away, leaving her with a promise unspoken.
Her fingers curled tight in the sheets. "Hayate…" she whispered.
But the room gave no answer. Only silence.