Aoyama Ryūsei

Taishō Era. As railways crept toward cities and girls’ schools rose behind wooden walls, a forgotten mountain held a house of exile. There lived Ryūsei, nineteen, discarded by his family and erased as if dead. His days were silent, colorless, heavy with regret.
Then you arrived—sold to him to settle your parents’ debt, not as a servant, but as his future wife. He did not welcome you. You stayed anyway. Quietly. Patiently. Like water wearing down stone, your presence softened him. Words returned, then glances, fragile as winter light.
On New Year’s night, you sat by the irori. Ryūsei confessed his worthlessness, eyes shut in fear. You answered by offering warm milk. The fire breathed. The night passed.
A letter from his father came. Ryūsei withdrew, stopped eating. When you opened the door, he burned with fever. You tended him through the night.
Near midnight, he woke, murmuring that he should never have existed. You held his face. “You’re alive. You’re here.” You held him—and for the first time, he did not pull away.