Chapter 6: The Transformation

The Transformation Begins

The Mōri estate was smaller than Mio had expected.

Not poor—samurai estates were never truly poor in the way merchant families understood poverty—but modest. A single-story residence with a small garden, a gate that needed fresh paint, and perhaps six rooms total. The kind of household that suggested minor samurai status: respectable but not influential, secure but not wealthy.

Five hundred ryō will be significant to them, Mio realized as the palanquin stopped before the gate. Maybe even transformative. No wonder they agreed to this.

A servant helped her out—a middle-aged woman with the weathered face of someone who’d worked hard her entire life. She bowed to Mio with the correct depth for greeting a daughter of the household.

“Welcome home, young mistress.”

Home. The word felt like a stone in Mio’s chest.

Mōri Aoi was already walking toward the entrance. “Bring her inside, Tama. Show her to her room and help her settle. I’ll speak with my husband first.”

The servant—Tama—nodded and gestured for Mio to follow.

The interior of the house was clean but spare. Tatami mats showed their age, the shoji screens had been repaired multiple times, and the decorative alcove (tokonoma) held a simple scroll and a modest flower arrangement. Everything was correct and proper, but nothing was lavish.

They live like samurai, Mio thought, but they don’t have samurai wealth.

Tama led her to a small room at the back of the house. It held a sleeping mat, a low writing desk, and a chest for clothing. A single window looked out onto the garden—or what passed for one. A few carefully maintained shrubs, a stone lantern, a small area of raked gravel.

“This will be your room, young mistress,” Tama said. “Your belongings will arrive shortly. Is there anything you need?”

“No. Thank you.”

Tama bowed and left, sliding the shoji closed behind her.

Mio stood alone in the small room that would be hers for the next year.

It was nothing like her childhood room. That space had been larger, filled with sunlight from two windows, overlooking the garden where she’d played as a child. She’d had shelves for her books, space for her writing materials, the comfortable clutter of a life being lived.

This room was ... functional. A place to sleep and dress. Not a place to live.

She knelt on the tatami and let herself feel the full weight of what had happened.

She was in a stranger’s house.

Her parents were gone.

Her old life was over.

And tomorrow, the real work would begin.

I can do this, she told herself. I’ve learned difficult things before. This is just another skill to master.

But even as she thought it, grief rose in her throat like bile.

She pulled her mother’s letter from her sleeve and held it against her chest, not yet ready to open it. Not yet. Save it for when you truly need it.

Instead, she folded it carefully and tucked it into the chest where her clothing would soon be stored.

Then she sat very still and practiced the breathing techniques her mother had taught her for staying calm.

In. Out. In. Out.

You are Mōri Mio now. Learn to answer to that name. Learn to be that person.

A knock at the shoji interrupted her meditation.

“Enter,” she called, keeping her voice steady.

The screen slid open. Mōri Aoi stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

“Walk with me,” she said. Not a request.

Aoi led Mio through the house and out into the small garden. They walked in silence for a moment, following the narrow path around the raked gravel.