Kyoto. Once the seat of emperors, now a city of winding streets and hidden stories.
In the eastern district, where the Shirakawa River flows with quiet dignity, a lanterned street waits for nightfall. By day, it is ordinary. Shopkeepers calling, clogs tapping, the scent of miso and fish drifting from alley kitchens. But when the sun slips behind the hills, the world shifts. Paper lanterns bloom red and gold. Curtains part. Music stirs from behind thin walls.
Here stands the Hanabira Teahouse, named for falling petals, though few ever look skyward. Men pass through its sliding doors with coins in their sleeves and hunger in their eyes.
And behind the silks, behind the smiles, lives a girl once named Aika.
Some would call her a courtesan.
But if you asked her.
Not as a client, not as a man seeking comfort, but truly asked her.
she would not speak of pleasure or perfume. She might not speak at all.
Instead, she might look to the window, where the wind sometimes carries laughter from the street, and think not of who she has been...
...but of a day long ago, when she was still someone's daughter.
And it is from there her story begins.