The Hanabira Teahouse was more than a brothel.
It was a world of illusion, of painted smiles, sweet sake, and whispered names no man was meant to remember.
Aika crossed its threshold at twelve, her geta sandals barely echoing on the lacquered floors. She was taken in through the back entrance, where the hallway smelled of camellia soap and steamed rice. Young girls in pastel robes whispered as she passed, peeking from behind noren curtains with wide, unreadable eyes.
She was taken to a small room.
No more than six tatami mats in size, where she was instructed to sit. Her legs tingled from the cold, but she did as she was told.
Madame Sumire stood tall above her, elegant even in silence. Finally, she knelt to Aika's eye level and spoke with disarming softness: Aika didn't understand.
"You're no longer your mother's daughter here. You will learn to smile for those who don't deserve it. You will be a flower that blooms only at night. And someday... if you bloom just right... someone might pluck you from the darkness."
But in the weeks to come, she would learn.
Her days were rigid, marked by the sound of bells and the hum of distant shamisen. She woke before the sun and was taught to wash in water cold enough to sting. Older girls showed her how to tuck the hem of her kimono just so, how to kneel with grace, how to smile without showing teeth.
She learned to bow, not too deeply, not too shallow.
She memorized the names of incense and the order of serving tea.
At night, she was made to sit in the parlor and observe: how the older women entertained, how they leaned just enough to listen but never enough to invite.
And when clients visited, Aika was hidden.
Until she wouldn't be.
By the time she turned sixteen, the silk she wore no longer felt foreign.
Her hair was always adorned with ornaments too heavy for her thin neck. Her steps were measured, her voice a quiet stream. She had become what Madame Sumire promised.
"A flower that bloomed in moonlight", beautiful and nameless.
But her heart remained untouched.
Even when her innocence was taken.
Not through violence, but transaction.
She didn't cry. She'd spent years rehearsing for that night. Smiling. Pouring sake. Laughing at jokes meant to dull her soul.
The man didn't matter. None of them ever did.
What Aika remembered most was what came after.
She returned to her room and washed until her skin turned pink, then sat in silence as her hair dripped onto the floor. There was no ceremony, no rite. Just the weight of a truth that could not be undone.
She had become someone else. Someone she didn't recognize.
But even then, she clung to the one piece of herself untouched by hands or coin:
Hope.