SWDnovel Chapter 352 How to Repay
Chapter 352 How to Repay
(Two chapters today too~)
November 11, 1990, Sunday, 5:43 AM.
Tokyo, Saionji Main Residence, East Wing Guest Room.
Chizuru was awakened by the chirping of birds.
It was a very small bird with a delicate, fragmented voice. It hopped twice in the eaves and then flew away.
Before dawn, the outline of the camellia tree in the east courtyard was projected onto the shoji paper, the shadows of its branches crooked and twisted, as if casually drawn with light ink.
When she opened her eyes, she didn't move; she listened for three seconds.
There were no unusual sounds inside the house. The wooden planks of the hallway were quiet. From the direction of the kitchen in the distance, there was a very faint sound of water—probably someone washing their hands, preparing for morning prayers.
She lifted the covers. Folded them into thirds, aligning the corners. The pillow was placed on the right side, with the opening of the pillowcase facing inwards.
According to the Kujo family's rule, the mats at the girls' school must be tidied up in no more than ninety seconds. She took seventy-one seconds.
In mid-November in Tokyo, the tap water was cold enough, but still not quite as good as the well water in Kyoto. She bent down in front of the sink, cupped her hands in water, and pressed them against her face. She didn't rub, just held the water for four seconds, then released it.
The face in the mirror was the same as yesterday: pale, thin, and expressionless.
She picked up the boxwood comb she had brought with her that she had left by the sink the night before.
During her seven years at the Kujo household, she changed three combs, all of the same style. This was the third one, and the handle had a small, shallow dent from her fingertips.
After tying her hair up in a bun, she checked it in front of the mirror.
Not a single stray hair.
She pulled a cloth bag from the bottom of her duffel bag and opened it. Inside was a pocket sword, less than eight inches long including the scabbard, with a sharkskin handle and a plain bronze guard; the entire sword was so plain that its age was almost impossible to discern.
This was given to her by her instructor. The year she retired, he made it for her with his old knife, saying, "A newbie uses a new knife. You're not a newbie anymore."
She tucked her sword below her belt, concealing it with the folds of her clothing. The knot of her plain-colored belt was slightly looser than that of a typical middle school girl—this was what the instructor had taught her.
If it's too tight, it restricts the range of motion when bending over; if it's too loose, the garment won't be properly aligned when bowing. Even the slightest difference is measured through a year of being beaten.
She finished tidying up. She knelt down in the center of the room, facing the shoji screen to the east.
This is something she does every morning. It's not meditation, nor is it any kind of spiritual practice.
Just sit there. Don't think about anything, don't do anything, slow your breathing until you can hear your own heartbeat, and then sit there until dawn.
She calls this "shutting herself off".
But it's not clean today.
Mixed with the sound of my heartbeat was something else—the gaze of that person from yesterday's Japanese-style room.
Satsuki's way of looking at her was different from anyone else's.
The old lady of Jiutiao examines portraits and calligraphy—analyzing each stroke from top to bottom.
Satsuki doesn't appreciate it. When her gaze fell upon her, Chizuru felt as if she were being sliced open along the midline, the two halves lifted up, and each part inside examined one by one.
Without malice, or even emotion.
She was just confirming whether you were a suitable candidate.
Five years ago, the twelve-year-old girl in the funeral hall had empty eyes. Yesterday, the person sitting in the seat of honor had eyes full of things, yet they were even more unfathomable than when they were empty.
Chizuru had remembered the debt her mother owed her for eighteen years. She had never hesitated on this path—if Lady Yuriko's daughter needed someone, she would go.
But what happens after she "goes"? Standing next to that person, what will she do? To what extent?
she does not know.
Or rather, what if Satsuki doesn't want her? She suddenly appears and wants to stand by her side—is that really okay?
This is what makes her uneasy; she fears that after being accepted, she will find that the words "repaying kindness" cannot support what that person truly needs.
Chizuru wasn't afraid of hardship, death, or a dirty life. What she feared was not having enough.
My breathing slowed. My heart beat one, two, three times.
Go to the study, explain things clearly, and lay yourself bare for her to see.
The rest is up to her to decide.
Chizuru buried this thought deep in her heart, like folding an old piece of silk, flattening it, and putting it away.
Then, turn it off.
If you turn it off and then on again, the person who wakes up will have half a level sharper senses than when they were asleep.
As the light slowly illuminated the shoji screen, the shadows of the camellia trees began to take on color—the leaves were dark, and the flower buds were light.
……
The camellia shadows on the shoji screen have already lit up.
At 6:20, winter light in Tokyo comes on a little later than in Kyoto.
Chizuru opened her eyes and resumed her breathing at a normal frequency.
She stood up and walked to the window.
The air in the courtyard was cold.
The osmanthus blossoms have mostly faded, leaving only a few clusters of dried stamens on the branches. But a faint fragrance remains, trapped by the cold air, not spreading far; you have to get close to smell it.
Footsteps approached from the end of the corridor. They were light, but rhythmic—it was Fujita.
Chizuru took a step back and stood still by the shoji screen.
The footsteps stopped in front of the guest room door.
"Ms. Matsumuro. Good morning." Fujita's voice came from outside the door. "Breakfast as you requested is ready. Please proceed to the dining room for your meal. I will be waiting for you in the study at nine o'clock sharp."
Chizuru opened the door.
Fujita stood in the corridor, just as he had yesterday—his back ramrod straight, his gaze level, his expression devoid of any superfluous detail. He glanced at Chizuru, his eyes lingering on her collar and belt for less than a second each.
Chizuru knew what he was looking at.
Check if the collar is wrinkled – to check your appearance. Check the position of the belt knot – to check if anything is hidden.
He found my hidden sword, but ignored me.
Why?
She bowed slightly. "Thank you for your trouble."
Fujita stepped aside to make way for him in the corridor. He walked ahead to lead the way, with Chizuru following behind.
When he reached the middle of the corridor, Fujita paused. He turned to the side, his gaze falling flatly on the folds of Chizuru's clothes at her waist.
"I didn't ask about it last night." His voice was low. "Because that was Miss's decision."
Chizuru did not move.
"But if one day—" Fujita looked back straight ahead, "when you need to pull it out, please make sure the blade is facing outwards."
After saying this, he turned around and continued walking.
Chizuru looked at his straight back, her expression unchanged.
This person is the same kind as her.
rest assured.
She silently thought to herself what she was saying but didn't say aloud.
Then they followed.
As she walked down the corridor, her eyes swept over both sides.
To the left, across a courtyard, is the second-floor corridor of the main house. The easternmost window on the second floor is half-open, and the gauze curtain is slightly pushed up by the wind.
To the right is a stone path leading to the backyard. At the end of the path is a wooden door with an old lock. The lock is brass, its surface oxidized and greenish, but there are fresh wear marks around the keyhole—indicating that the door is frequently opened.
There is a maple leaf on a pillar at the corner of the corridor.
It was a dark red color, and it was placed on the crossbeam, so it wasn't blown away by the wind.
Yesterday evening, on her way to the guest room with Fujita, this leaf wasn't here yet.
Who put it there?
Chizuru's gaze lingered on the maple leaf for half a second before returning to it.
The dining room is located on the west side of the first floor of the main house. It's not large, with a long table for eight people and a tabletop made of old teak.
When Chizuru arrived, the table was already set with food—plain congee, pickles, seared mentaiko (spicy cod roe), a dish of dashi rolls, and miso soup. The tableware was Oribe ware, with a bluish-green glaze and simple shapes.
She ate alone.
There was no one else in the cafeteria, but the door to the kitchen was half open, and the occasional sound of dishes clinking could be heard.
The porridge is freshly cooked, with the rice grains cooked until they are half-dissolved, allowing you to taste the sweetness of the rice.
The Kujo family's white porridge uses Omi rice, but she couldn't tell what kind of rice the Saionji family used. However, the cooking time was perfectly controlled, and the water-to-rice ratio was just right—the person cooking in the kitchen was an expert.
She ate very quickly. She even used the pickles to pick up the last grains of porridge at the bottom of the bowl and ate them all.
In Kyoto, chopsticks are placed back on the chopstick rest with the tips pointing to the left. In Tokyo, however, the chopsticks are placed with the tips pointing forward.
She hesitated for a second, then turned the chopsticks around.
……
8:52.
Chizuru stood outside the study door.
She arrived eight minutes early.
The hallway was quiet. The study door was closed, but the light was on, with a sliver of light shining through the crack under the door.
She heard sounds coming from inside. Very faint, the soft scratching of a pen on paper, as if the person writing was thinking as they wrote, with irregular pauses.
Eight minutes is a delicate amount of time.
Arriving too early seems rushed. Arriving on time seems like calculating—which is impolite for a younger person attending a formal appointment. Arriving three to five minutes early is standard, but it can easily make her seem unimportant.
She arrived eight minutes early, but didn't knock. She waited in the hallway until two minutes to go before knocking.
In this way, the people inside will only know that she arrived two minutes early—just somewhere between "polite" and "solemn".
8:58.
She knocked on the door twice.
The scratching sound of the pen stopped.
"Please come in."