In the days that followed, Reina continued practicing her writing.
Each evening she returned to the small study room with her brush and paper, repeating the same characters again and again until her wrist ached. Some strokes still bent awkwardly, and ink stains often marked her fingertips. But slowly the characters began to look less like mistakes. And more like words.
Her mother-in-law checked on her lessons occasionally, correcting a stroke here, adjusting the brush in her hand there. Reina listened carefully each time. Learning felt unfamiliar. But she wanted to do it well.
During the day, however, Reina did not know how to be idle. So she worked.
Not as much as before.
Not as harshly as before.
No one here ordered her to scrub floors until her fingers bled. No one inspected corners for dust. No one struck her if something was missed.
But still she worked. She wiped the railings. Arranged the cushions. Straightened folded cloth. Polished trays. Not because she was told. Because her hands did not know how to rest.
Late that morning, her mother-in-law found her kneeling beside a cabinet, carefully dusting the carved edges with a soft cloth.
"You don't need to do that," the woman said gently.
Reina paused and bowed.
"...I want to."
The woman tilted her head slightly.
"We have servants for these tasks."
Reina nodded.
"Yes."
A small pause. "...But I would like to help." Her fingers tightened faintly around the cloth. "...to show my gratitude."
The older woman blinked.
"Gratitude?"
Reina lowered her gaze.
"For allowing me to stay here. And for taking care of me."
Silence. Then her mother-in-law laughed. Not mockingly. Warmly.
"My dear child," she said, smiling, "you don't need to prove gratitude for that. You're my daughter-in-law. This is your home."
Reina froze slightly.
Your home.
The words felt unfamiliar.
Heavy.
Soft.
Impossible.
The woman leaned a little closer, voice playful.
"If you truly want to show appreciation," she added lightly, "you can give me a grandchild."
Reina's breath caught. Color rushed instantly to her cheeks beneath her hair.
"I-"
No sound came out. Her hands tightened. Her head lowered further.
The woman laughed again, amused.
"I'm only teasing."
But Reina remained very still.
Face warm.
Heart racing.
She did not know where to look.
Later that afternoon, Reina carried folded linens down the hallway toward the storage room. Voices drifted from the adjacent study.
Hiro's voice.
And his mother's.
She stopped. Not intentionally. Her feet simply did.
"The company's thirty-second anniversary is next week," his mother was saying. "All the major partners will attend. Sponsors as well."
Reina stood quietly beside the wall.
Listening.
"We should choose attire soon," she continued. "You and your bride should appear together."
Silence. Then Hiro spoke.
Calm and measured.
"I don't think she's ready."
Reina's fingers tightened slightly around the linens. His mother sounded surprised.
"Not ready?"
"She's not used to crowds," he said. "Or attention."
A pause.
"It would overwhelm her." He added.
His tone was steady.
Practical.
Protective.
But Reina did not hear it that way.
Her chest tightened slowly.
"She's still adjusting," he added. "Taking her out publicly now would only make things harder."
Silence.
Then, quieter...
"And... with her appearance, people will stare."
The words landed softly.
But they landed.
Reina's breath grew shallow. Inside the room, his mother sighed thoughtfully.
"...I see."
She sounded unconvinced.
"But she is your wife," she said gently. "She must face society eventually."
"I know."
His voice was calm.
But firm.
"Just not yet."
Outside the door Reina stood very still. Her thoughts moved slowly.
Carefully.
He doesn't want people to see me.
Her fingers curled into the fabric she held.
Because I would embarrass him.
Her chest tightened.
Of course. That made sense.
She lowered her gaze further.
I should have known.
Inside the study, Hiro continued speaking calmly about guest lists and schedules. Outside Reina bowed slightly toward the closed door.
"...I'm sorry," she whispered.
Not loud enough for anyone to hear.
Then she walked away. Her footsteps made no sound.
Inside the room Hiro leaned back slightly.
"...She frightens easily," he said quietly.
His mother studied him.
"You're worried about her."
He did not answer. Because he hadn't realized it until she said it.
Reina returned to her room. Set the folded linens down and sat beside them. Her chest felt hollow.
Not painfully.
Not sharply.
Just... empty.
She told herself gently:
It's alright.
He's right.
Someone like me shouldn't stand beside someone like him.
Her fingers smoothed the cloth automatically. She did not cry. Because she had already learned long ago when something hurts quietly, you endure it quietly too.
Outside the afternoon light softened.
Inside Reina folded herself a little smaller.