By the age of six, Reina no longer needed to be told what to do. She woke before dawn each morning, long before the servants began moving through the halls and before the faint gray light of morning touched the paper screens. No one came to wake her. No one gave her instructions.
She rose quietly because she already knew.
The house was always cold at that hour. The wooden floors held the chill of the night, and when Reina stepped onto them her thin soles felt every bit of it. The cold crept slowly through her feet and up her legs, but she did not complain. Complaining was troublesome. Instead, she folded her blanket carefully and set it aside before stepping into the hallway.
The house felt enormous when everyone else was asleep. Every hallway stretched long and empty. Every sliding door stood still and silent. Reina liked that.
Silence meant safety.
She picked up the broom and began to sweep. The soft brushing sound filled the quiet corridor as she worked slowly, gathering dust into small, careful piles. She made sure the broom moved gently across the floorboards so it would not scrape too loudly.
When the sweeping was finished, she wiped the floors with a damp cloth.
Then she folded laundry that had been left in neat stacks near the washing room. Then she carried buckets of water from the well outside. She moved steadily from task to task, never rushing but never stopping.
Her sleeves remained pulled down to her wrists.
Always.
Even when the cloth dragged slightly across the floor. Even when the fabric grew damp while she worked. Even when it made her movements slower and clumsier than they might have been otherwise.
She never pushed them back.
Not once.
Because skin must not be seen.
Skin showed marks.
Marks brought questions.
Questions brought punishment.
So she worked with small movements instead: careful hands, careful steps, careful breathing. She had grown very good at being careful.
No one praised her for her work. But no one struck her either. And that, Reina had learned, meant she was doing well.
The servants had begun to treat her differently over time. They no longer stopped her when she entered a room. They no longer shooed her away from the kitchen or the washing area. The whispers that used to follow her footsteps had faded into quiet glances instead. Because now she was useful.
Reina did not understand affection, but she understood usefulness.
Useful things were allowed to stay.
That morning she stood beside the kitchen basin, washing dishes from the previous evening's meal. Because she was small, a wooden crate had been placed beneath her feet so she could reach the basin properly. She climbed onto it carefully and balanced herself as she worked. Steam rose from the hot water, curling around her fingers as she scrubbed each bowl slowly. She rinsed them one by one and placed them neatly beside the basin. Her movements were slow and deliberate.
Careful hands meant fewer mistakes.
Fewer mistakes meant fewer punishments.
She liked that rule.
It was simple.
Predictable.
Safe.
In the next room, her baby sister crawled across the tatami mats.
The little girl babbled softly to herself, patting the floor with small hands as she explored the room. A maid sat nearby, sewing quietly while keeping watch over her.
Reina glanced once.
Just once.
Then she lowered her eyes again.
She knew better than to stare.
Her fingers moved around a glass cup.
It was thin and clear and delicate. The kind of cup that had to be handled with special care. Reina washed it slowly.
Very slowly.
Her sleeve slipped.
The fabric brushed against the wet rim of the cup. The glass shifted.
Before she could catch it, the cup slid from her fingers.
It struck the edge of the basin. The sound was sharp.
Too loud.
Too sudden.
The cup shattered.
Fragments of glass scattered across the floor and the basin with small, brittle sounds.
Reina froze.
Her breath stopped.
A thin shard skidded across the wooden floor.
In the next room, the baby paused.
Then she whimpered.
The maid gasped softly.
But it was already too late.
Curious, the baby had crawled closer to the doorway. Her tiny hand reached forward, exploring the unfamiliar shine of something on the floor. A thin edge of glass brushed her hand. A small red line appeared against her pale skin.
The baby began to cry.
The sound pierced the quiet house like a blade. Footsteps rushed down the hallway. Reina's heart pounded.
Her stepmother appeared in the doorway. Her gaze moved quickly across the room.
First to the crying baby.
Then to the red scratch on her hand.
Then to the broken glass scattered across the floor.
And finally to Reina.
Silence filled the room.
The woman's expression hardened instantly.
"How dare you."
Reina dropped to her knees.
"I'm sorry..."
"You did that on purpose." Step mother shouted.
Reina shook her head quickly, bowing low.
"No, Madam, I..."
"Jealous creature."
The words struck her like stones.
"You wanted to hurt her," Step mother continued, her voice rising sharply. "You couldn't stand that she is loved."
Reina's hands trembled against the floor.
"No! I would never..."
"Liar!"
The word cut deeper than any blade.
The woman turned toward the maid.
"Bring the rod."
The maid hesitated, her sewing needle still clutched between her fingers.
"…Madam, it was only a scra..."
"Now." Step mother commanded.
The maid lowered her eyes and hurried away. When she returned, she placed a wooden rod into the step mother's waiting hand.
Reina bowed lower.
Her forehead touched the floor.
Her voice trembled.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
The first strike tore across her back.
Pain exploded through her body. Her breath vanished from her lungs as if the air had been ripped away.
The second strike landed harder.
The third.
The fourth.
The sound of wood striking flesh filled the room.
"You wicked child!"
Strike.
"Ugly inside and out!"
Strike.
"No wonder no one can stand you!"
Strike.
Reina's hands pressed tightly against the floor. Her shoulders shook violently. But she did not scream.
She had learned that screaming only made the punishment worse.
So instead she bowed lower.
And apologized more.
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
When the strikes finally stopped, her back burned like fire beneath her clothes. Warmth spread slowly across the fabric.
Sticky.
Wet.
Her stepmother tossed the rod aside.
"Lock her in," the woman said coldly.
The maid hesitated only a moment before guiding Reina to her feet and leading her down the hallway. The storage room door slid open.
Reina was pushed inside. The door shut behind her. Darkness settled quickly. Silence followed.
Reina knelt where she had been left.
Her breathing came softly.
Carefully.
Each inhale hurt.
Each exhale trembled.
Dust floated through thin beams of light that slipped through the cracks in the wooden boards. The air smelled of old wood, dry paper, and forgotten things.
She did not cry.
She waited.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
At first she could still hear the sounds of the house: footsteps in the hallway, a distant voice speaking, the soft crying of the baby. But slowly those sounds faded. Footsteps moved farther away.
Voices disappeared.
Doors closed.
And gradually the world outside the storage room grew quiet.
Very quiet.
Reina blinked slowly. Her shoulders loosened just a little. She looked around the dim room.
No one was there.
No one watching.
No one whispering.
No one judging.
No one shouting.
No one hitting.
Just silence.
Her fingers curled lightly against the dusty floor.
"…It's peaceful," she whispered.
The word sounded strange in her mouth, as if she had not used it in a very long time. She shifted carefully and leaned her back against a wooden crate. Pain flared through her shoulders and back, but she endured it. The quiet wrapped around her like a soft blanket.
No eyes.
No voices.
No expectations.
Her breathing slowed.
For the first time that day, her body relaxed.
"…I like it here."
The confession slipped out before she could stop it. Because it was true.
In this room, she did not have to worry about saying the wrong thing.
She did not have to worry about moving too slowly. She did not have to worry about being ugly.
In this room she did not have to be careful. No one could see her.
And not being seen, Reina had learned, was the safest thing of all.