It happened the next morning.
Not suddenly. Not loudly. Cruelty rarely announces itself.
Reina woke before sunrise, when the sky outside her window was still gray and uncertain. The early light slipped weakly through the paper screen, thin and fragile as if it wasn't sure it should stay. For a moment she lay still beneath her blanket, listening to the quiet house. Her hands still stung faintly from the day before. Thin red lines crossed her palms like fading threads. Slowly, she curled her fingers inward and then opened them again. The movement hurt, but not enough to complain. Complaining was troublesome.
Carefully, she sat up so the futon would not rustle. If she was quiet enough, perhaps today would be better.
When Reina stepped into the hallway, the house already felt different.
It was quieter than usual but not the gentle quiet of a peaceful morning. It was the kind of quiet that felt like it was watching.
Two maids stood near the corner whispering to each other. When they noticed Reina, their voices stopped immediately.
Reina bowed politely.
"Good morning," she said.
Neither woman answered. One of them turned away as if she had suddenly remembered something important. The other adjusted the sleeves of her uniform, avoiding Reina's eyes.
Reina straightened slowly.
"...Good morning," she repeated softly.
Still nothing.
Her hands folded together in front of her.
"...I see."
She walked past them with careful, quiet steps, as though she were afraid even the sound of her footsteps might disturb the air. Behind her, one of the maids whispered just loud enough to be heard.
"...It really is unsettling."
Reina pretended not to hear.
Later that morning, before the sun had fully climbed into the sky, her stepmother called for her. Reina entered the room and knelt immediately.
"Yes, Madam?"
The woman did not look up.
"You will clean the storage room," she said.
Reina blinked in surprise.
"The storage room?"
"Yes." Step mother replied sharply as if commanding her to comply.
The room was rarely used. Even the servants avoided it. It was small, windowless, and thick with dust.
But Reina lowered her head at once.
"Yes, Madam."
She did not ask why. Good children did not ask why.
The storage room door slid shut behind her with a soft wooden sound.
Darkness settled quickly. The room smelled of old wood and forgotten things. Stacked boxes leaned against the walls, and thin beams of light slipped through cracks in the boards, illuminating small clouds of dust drifting through the air.
Reina knelt on the floor, folded her sleeves neatly, and began to clean.
Dust coated her fingers and clung to her skin. After a while it tickled her nose, making her cough softly.
She quickly covered her mouth.
Too loud.
Working slowly and carefully, she wiped every surface she could reach. She cleaned the corners, brushed the shelves, and straightened the boxes so they sat neatly against the wall. If she did it perfectly, perhaps Madam would be pleased.
Perhaps someone might smile again.
Time passed, though she could not tell how much. There was no window in the room, no sunlight to measure the hours. Her knees began to ache from kneeling, and her back grew stiff.
Her throat felt dry.
Still, she kept cleaning.
Stopping meant failing.
At last, when everything looked as neat as she could make it, Reina stood and brushed the dust from her kimono. She walked to the door and slid it open.
It did not move.
She blinked.
She tried again, pulling harder this time. The door remained firmly in place.
"...Madam?"
Her voice was soft and polite.
She pushed again.
Nothing.
"...Excuse me?"
The silence on the other side of the door felt heavy. Reina stood very still, listening carefully. There were no footsteps. No voices. No movement at all.
The realization came slowly, not like lightning, but like fog creeping across the ground. She was not locked inside by accident. She had been locked inside on purpose. Reina stepped back from the door. She folded her hands together and waited quietly.
Surely someone would come soon.
But no one did.
At one point, she heard footsteps passing in the hallway outside. Hope fluttered suddenly in her chest.
She hurried to the door and called gently, "I'm here. The cleaning is finished."
The footsteps stopped.
For a moment, her heart lifted.
Then the footsteps continued down the hall.
Walking away.
Her hands lowered slowly.
"...Oh," she murmured.
Hours later, the door finally slid open.
Light spilled into the small room, making Reina blink after so long in the dimness. Her stepmother stood in the doorway.
"I hope you reflected on your behavior," the woman said calmly.
Reina bowed immediately.
"Yes, Madam."
The woman's eyes drifted downward toward Reina's hands, where the faint red lines from yesterday still marked her skin.
"How careless," she murmured.
She reached out and took Reina's wrist. Turning the child's palm upward, she pressed her fingernail slowly into the tender skin. Pain bloomed sharp and sudden. Reina's breath caught in her throat, but she did not pull away.
The nail dragged slightly.
A thin line opened.
A small bead of red surfaced on her palm.
The woman released her hand.
"You must learn to behave properly."
Reina bowed again.
"...Yes, Madam."
Her voice was small, but steady.
Without another word, the woman turned and walked away, apparently satisfied. Reina remained kneeling on the floor of the storage room.
She stared down at her palm, where the tiny red line shone against her skin. Carefully, she touched it with her other hand.
She winced.
"...I'll be more careful," she whispered.
Not to the woman.
To herself.
Outside, clouds slowly covered the sun. And somewhere deep inside Reina, something grew a little quieter.