The rain began before the lanterns were lit.
It tapped gently against the roof tiles, trickling down the thin wooden eaves of the teahouse, seeping into the hush that had fallen over Aika's world. The Hanabira Teahouse, usually a place of wine-warmed laughter and rustling silk, felt quieter now. The air carried weight, a silence she had grown used to, but no longer welcomed.
Renjiro had not returned.
It had been twelve days.
Twelve days since she saw him behind the screen with the matron. Twelve days since he spoke not a single word to her. Twelve days since her heart had started its slow, aching unravel.
Aika sat on the floor of her chamber, sleeves rolled back slightly, calligraphy brush hovering over a fresh piece of rice paper.
She did not write letters to anyone. Courtesans weren't supposed to. But over the past week, she had filled five.
Each one folded, sealed, and tucked beneath the tatami where the matron would not find them.
They were not for Renjiro.
Not really.
They were for herself. Pieces of her heart written down, in case she forgot how to feel it.
'Renjiro-sama, today I served plum wine to a merchant from Edo. He had a laugh like an ox and hands that crushed the fan I gave him. I smiled anyway. I always smile, but it feels worse now.
I keep thinking of the camellia you left on the table. It's dried now. I still keep it by my pillow. Does that make me foolish?'
Another letter, written after another night alone:
'Do you remember asking me what sound I loved most? I lied. I told you it was the koto because it's what they want me to say. But it's the rain. The sound of rain on the roof, when no one is speaking, and I can pretend I'm somewhere else.'
And another:
'You said my real name sounded beautiful when I whispered it. You were the only one to ask. When you didn't come back, I tried saying it again alone. It didn't sound beautiful anymore.'
Each letter was signed the same way.
Not with her name.
But with a brushstroke of the camellia flower.
Aika folded the latest one carefully. She didn't cry. She hadn't allowed herself to in years. But tonight, as she tucked the letter away and lay down beneath the pale lamplight, her throat felt tight.
"I don't know if he's coming back."
She thought it softly. She didn't say it aloud.
Because saying it would make it real.
The next morning, she heard from one of the girls that a man had returned. Not asking for a room. Not asking for a girl.
Asking for her.
Aika stood so quickly her tea cup tipped, splashing her sleeve.
Her hands trembled as she smoothed them down.
She walked calmly down the corridor, passed the screens, past the painted pillars and giggling guests.
She didn't run.
But her heart did.
And as she neared the front chamber, she saw no one.
Only a folded note.
A single camellia beside it.