Chapter 5: The Adoption

The day arrived with cruel spring sunshine.

Mio woke before dawn in her childhood room, staring at the ceiling beams she’d memorized over sixteen years. Every knot in the wood, every shadow cast by the garden lantern—she’d seen them thousands of times. After today, never again.

She rose and dressed herself carefully in the formal kimono her mother had prepared—dark blue with a subtle pattern of plum blossoms. Not her finest clothing, but appropriate for a merchant’s daughter being adopted into a samurai family. She would change into samurai clothing later, at the Mōri household. This was the last time she would dress as Mitsui Mio.

Her hands were steady as she arranged her hair. That surprised her. She’d expected to be shaking, weeping, unable to function.

Instead, she felt oddly calm. Hollow, perhaps. As if the grief of the past two weeks had carved out her insides, leaving only a shell that could perform the necessary rituals.

I can cry later, she told herself. After. When I’m alone in that strange house. But today I will be strong. For them.

She tucked her mother’s letter into her sleeve—the one she wasn’t supposed to open until she was desperate and alone. It rested against her heart like a talisman.

Then she went to face her last morning as her parents’ daughter.

Her mother was already in the kitchen, preparing tea with mechanical precision. Rin’s face was composed, but her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She’d been crying in the night. Quietly, so Mio wouldn’t hear.

But the walls were thin. Mio had heard.

“Good morning, daughter,” Rin said, her voice steady.

“Good morning, Mother.”

They prepared breakfast together in silence. The familiar routine—rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables—performed one last time in synchronized movements learned over years of shared mornings.

Takatoshi joined them, and they ate without speaking. What was there to say that hadn’t already been said?

After breakfast, Rin helped Mio arrange the last items in the marriage chest. The beautiful trousseau lay nested in silk wrapping—the white Shiromuku, the colored Iro-uchikake with its embroidered cranes, the cosmetics, the mirror, the kai-awase shells, all the tools of her transformation.

At the very bottom, hidden beneath layers of formal robes, Mio placed the small knife her father had made. She wrapped it carefully in plain cloth and tucked it where no one would think to look.

Something from my real father, she thought. Something that’s mine.

Her mother noticed but said nothing. Just squeezed Mio’s hand once, briefly.

The chest was closed and locked.

Shabazu Matsui arrived precisely at the appointed hour, accompanied by Mōri Kaito and his wife, Mōri Aoi.

Mio studied her soon-to-be adoptive mother with careful attention. Aoi was perhaps thirty-five, with the rigid posture and controlled movements of a samurai wife. Her kimono was elegant but not ostentatious—charcoal gray with a subtle pattern of bamboo leaves. Her face was pleasant enough, though her eyes were assessing as they swept over Mio.

She’s evaluating me, Mio realized. Like a horse being purchased. Checking for flaws.