Her father told her that evening.
He did not speak gently, nor was he particularly harsh. He simply spoke as if stating an ordinary fact.
"You will prepare your things," he said. "You will leave tomorrow. From now on, you will live with that family."
Reina bowed her head immediately.
"Yes, Father."
That was all that needed to be said.
There were no questions, no hesitation, and no protest. Reina had never been asked what she wanted before, and she saw no reason to believe she would be asked now.
That night, Reina sat alone in her small room.
Moonlight filtered faintly through the paper window, barely bright enough to see by. The room itself was nearly empty. Only her folded bedding, a small wooden box, and the quiet she had grown used to filled the space.
She opened the wooden box. Inside were all the belongings she owned.
There were two folded kimonos. One was worn thin at the sleeves, and the other had faded from years of washing. The third garment she owned was the one she was currently wearing. Seventeen years of living had left her with only three garments.
Reina lifted them carefully and placed them into a cloth bundle. Her movements were slow, not because she felt sadness, but because she wanted to be careful. She had always been careful with the few things that belonged to her.
Next, she reached beneath the lining of the box. Her fingers brushed against a piece of paper, and she gently pulled it out. It was her mother's photograph. The edges had softened from years of being held. Reina looked at it only briefly, not long enough to see her own reflection in the glass. After a moment, she wrapped it carefully in cloth and placed it inside the bundle. Finally, she picked up the doll. Its stitches had grown old over the years. One arm hung slightly loose, and one eye was uneven. It was still not pretty.
But it was hers.
She tucked the doll beside the photograph and tied the bundle closed. Afterward, she simply sat there in the quiet room.
She did not cry.
There was nothing to cry for.
After all, a person cannot lose something they were never allowed to keep.
The motorcar arrived early the next morning. Its low engine hummed as it rolled into the courtyard, the sound spreading through the air like distant thunder. Servants peeked from the hallways to see what was happening. Sakura hurried to the veranda, her curiosity obvious, while her stepmother followed more slowly, her lips already curved in amusement.
Reina stepped outside carrying her small bundle.
The same woman from the day before stood beside the motorcar. She appeared calm, composed, and elegant as always.
"My son was unable to come," the woman said politely to Reina's father. "We will hold the ceremony once the proper day has been chosen. I will send word."
Her father nodded once.
"That is acceptable."
There was no argument, no concern, and no further questions. Behind them, Sakura covered her mouth as she whispered loudly to her mother.
"See? I told you. He must be crippled or hideous."
Her stepmother chuckled softly.
"Or both."
They laughed together.
Reina did not look at them.
When her father gestured toward the car, she stepped forward immediately.
"Go," he said.
Reina bowed deeply, her posture perfect.
"Yes, Father."
She did not wait for anything more, because she knew there would be nothing more. She approached the motorcar, and the driver quickly stepped forward to open the door for her. The visiting woman glanced down at Reina's hands and then at the small bundle she carried.
"That is all?" the woman asked gently. "You may bring more if you wish. The driver can carry it."
Behind them, Reina's stepmother laughed aloud. Reina bowed her head slightly.
"This is all I have," she said quietly.
The courtyard fell silent. For a brief moment, no one spoke. The woman's eyes softened as she looked at Reina. It was not pity that filled her gaze, but something warmer.
"I see," she said quietly.
She did not ask another question.
Once they were seated, the driver closed the door. Reina sat carefully at the edge of the seat, her bundle resting in her lap. Across from her, the woman watched her silently.
Once, she tried to see Reina's face, but the girl's dark hair fell forward like a curtain, hiding it completely. Instead, the woman's gaze drifted downward.
She noticed Reina's kimono. The cloth was plain, the dye faded from repeated washing. Small stains lingered in places where they had never fully washed out. The fabric itself had worn softer than it should have from years of use. Even the servants in her own household dressed better than this girl. The woman said nothing, but her eyes changed slightly.
Outside, the gates of the house slowly opened.
No one waved.
No one called Reina's name.
No one said goodbye.
The motorcar began to move. Reina did not look back. It was not because she was strong, but because there was nothing behind her that she wished to see.
Wind brushed past the wheels, and dust rose into the air as the motorcar traveled down the road. The house grew smaller and smaller in the distance until it finally disappeared from sight. Reina left home the same way she had lived in it.
Quietly.
Unnoticed.
Unstopped.
As if she had never been there at all.