The traditional Japanese room was lined with tatami mats, furnished with a low wooden table and cushions—steeped in a classical atmosphere.
As a reception room, it was well-lit and properly ventilated. Not far away, the wooden sliding doors stood partially open, revealing the courtyard under the dim light of early evening.
The darkening world outside only made the brightness of the hanging lamp overhead more striking.
Its light spilled across the clean floor, illuminating a glaring patch of spilled water.
Beside the puddle, a delicate teacup rolled slightly, then came to a stop—silent.
And just like that, the entire room fell silent.
Everything was still, like an ordinary winter evening.
But what lay before them was anything but ordinary.
The air seemed frozen, as if time itself had stopped. The scene before Hirakawa Tetsubumi looked like a motionless painting.
By the table stood a girl in a school uniform—blazer, plaid skirt, black knee-high socks, and a ribbon tied at her chest. She faced her mother directly.
Opposite her, the elegantly dressed lady in a refined kimono sat upright, her expression unchanged, a gentle smile still resting on her lips.
This frozen tableau held—
Until the wind stirred.
A cold winter breeze rustled the plants in the courtyard, carrying a faint rustling sound.
At the same time, Tsutsuhara's mother spoke.
Her voice was as gentle as ever—calm, steady, without the slightest hint of reproach:
"Shiori, that was quite rude."
In contrast, Tsutsuhara Shiori stood in silence.
There was once a famous line written by a certain author:
"If you do not erupt in silence, you perish in silence."
For so long, her mother's so-called gentle respect—
A respect that couldn't be resisted,
A respect so heavy it suffocated her into silence—
Had wrapped around her like rising tides, drowning her voice before it could even surface.
But now
A certain meddlesome teacher had pulled her up.
And she had finally broken through the surface.
"Rude?"
Her tone was laced with sharp sarcasm.
"Of course it is—"
"What exactly counts as 'rude'?"
"Like what you just did—"
"Like this?"
"Of course—"
"Or like you, Mother?"
She cut off her mother again and again.
Her questions rang coldly, like the winter air itself—each one carrying the resentment she had buried for years.
Rude?
What is rude?
Throwing a teacup in anger—was that rude?
Interrupting her mother—was that rude?
"If what you call 'rude' refers to what I'm doing right now—then yes, I admit it. I am being rude. Completely rude. I apologize."
"But—"
A mocking smile formed on her lips—utterly different from her mother's ever-gentle one.
"But if your definition of 'rude' is something like you—"
"If it means maintaining that so-called, fake 'politeness'—"
"If it means pretending to agree with everything your daughter says…"
"If it means hiding your control behind gentleness—forcing me to act only according to your will, and calling it 'rude' whenever I disobey!"
She clenched her teeth, staring straight at her mother.
"Then I'd rather be rude!"
"Shiori—"
"What are you even trying to do?!"
She couldn't hold back anymore.
Her eyes turned red.
"Mother—I don't need this kind of fake respect!"
"I'd rather you get angry at me! I'd rather you openly disagree with me! I'd rather have that than you pretending to agree, only to pressure me into 'voluntarily' changing afterward!"
"Do you even understand?! I don't need this kind of respect—really, I don't! Absolutely don't! Not in any way!"
Like a dam breaking, she shouted with all her strength.
"Please… please just listen to me, okay?!"
"Just this once—please, I'm begging you… stop maintaining this surface-level 'respect'… okay?"
"Please just listen to me!"
Her vision blurred.
She could no longer see her mother's expression.
Her strength drained away.
"Please…"
She bowed deeply.
Tears fell onto the cold floor of winter.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound echoed clearly in the silent room.
Then
A long silence followed.
An unsettling silence.
"Shiori."
After an unknown stretch of time, her mother finally spoke.
"Yes…"
Shiori's weak reply came softly.
"Are you tired?"
No answer.
Yet her mother continued speaking as if nothing had happened.
"Would you like to go rest in your room?"
"Go on. I'll call you when dinner is ready."
Gathering what little strength she had left, Shiori raised her head.
But her vision remained blurred—she still couldn't see her mother's face.
"Mother…"
"Hmm? What is it? Ah… are you asking what I think about what you just said?"
"Yes."
"I see."
Through her hazy sight, she could vaguely make out her mother nodding.
"I, of course, respect your thoughts."
The same gentle tone.
Like that of a refined, graceful lady.
"You are my daughter. No matter what, I will respect your opinions. Isn't that right?"
Even in this blurred world
Even without seeing clearly
Shiori could still picture it.
That same, unchanged smile.
She had no strength left to argue.
No strength left to speak.
No strength even to stand.
Her body swayed, on the verge of collapse.
She had never escaped her mother's prison—
A prison woven from control.
She stood inside it, waiting to be carved by a blade called gentleness—
A blade that appeared harmless, yet shaped her into whatever its wielder desired.
There had never been a way out.
Not before.
Not now.
Not ever.
That was what Tsutsuhara Shiori believed.
She lowered her head again, staring at the clean floor at the glaring water stain.
The bright overhead light reflected in it, piercing her eyes.
It was already mid-February.
The third term was about to end.
When April came
She would say goodbye to the wind ensemble.
"Tsutsuhara."
"Tsutsuhara?"
Time passed unnoticed.
Just as she had completely given up
A voice called her.
At the same time, a shadow fell over the reflected light.
She raised her head.
In her blurred vision, a figure appeared.
"Hirakawa…sensei"
"Yes."
His voice was gentle—comforting.
"It's alright. You should go rest for a while."
"I…"
"It's okay. You've already done very well—you expressed your feelings completely."
"But…"
"Don't worry. Even if they weren't accepted, that's fine. We made a promise, remember? The feelings you couldn't convey—I'll convey them for you."
Though she couldn't see clearly
She could feel it.
A warm smile on his face.
A smile completely different from her mother's "gentleness."
"Okay."
For some reason
She nodded.