Takumi rented me a suit.
I didn’t ask him to. He just showed up on Thursday night with a garment bag, a pair of polished black shoes two sizes too big, and the solemn expression of a man delivering a death sentence.
“It’s from my cousin’s wedding,” he said. “He’s a little wider than you. So don’t breathe too deep.”
“I wasn’t going to go...”
“You’re going. Jin sent a text to my phone, Ren. My phone. A man who looks like that does not text people twice.”
“He texted you?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘Please ensure he eats and wears a tie.’ I’m now emotionally compromised.” Takumi shoved the bag into my arms. “Don’t die. Also if you meet a rich girl, introduce me.”
“You have a girlfriend!”
“I have a vibe, Ren. It’s different.”
Friday evening, 6:15 p.m., the stairwell outside my mother’s hospital room.
I was standing in a borrowed suit, trying to knot a tie for the fourth time, and failing for the fourth time, and swearing in a low continuous murmur that probably qualified as a prayer.
“Fuck. Fuck. How do people do this?”
“You’re strangling yourself.”
I turned.
Mio stood three steps up, a paper bag in her hands. She’d come straight from the lab, still in her white coat, hair coming loose from its clip. She looked at me, then at the disaster hanging around my neck, and her mouth twitched.
“Come here.”
“I can do it.”
“You’ve done it four times.”
“Five. I lost count.”
She walked down the steps and stopped in front of me. And then, without asking, without hesitating, she reached up and took the ends of the tie in her hands.
Her fingers moved fast. Over, under, through, a sharp tug, a smoothing of the fabric. It took maybe six seconds. A perfect, crisp Windsor, like she’d done it a thousand times.
Neither of us said anything.
She finished. Her hands stayed on the knot for a moment longer than they needed to. I could feel her breath on my chin. I could see the tiny tremor in her fingers.
“How did you know how to do that?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was barely audible. “Muscle memory.”
It was the second lie she’d told me, and this one broke my heart.
She dropped her hands. Stepped back. Her cheeks were pink, and she studied the floor like it had personally betrayed her.
“There,” she said. “You look... fine.”
“Fine?”
“Very fine.”
“Mio.”
“Mm?”
“Thank you.”
She looked up. And for one suspended second, I thought she might say something real. Something about the tie, about the six seconds, about the way her hands had known my neck.
Instead she held out the paper bag.
“Pudding,” she said. “For afterward. In case it goes badly.”
“It’s going to go badly.”
“Then it’s a good thing I brought two.”
The Kurose estate sits behind a stone wall in Azabu, in a part of Tokyo where the streets are so quiet you can hear your own pulse.
It wasn’t a mansion. It was an empire disguised as a house. A sprawling, traditional compound of dark wood and white plaster, with a moss garden, a koi pond, and a gatehouse that looked older than the country. A black car brought me through three separate checkpoints. Each one had a man in a gray suit who looked at me like I was a stain.
Jin met me at the entrance.
He wore a black formal kimono with a family crest on the chest. It should’ve looked ridiculous. It made him look like the last prince of a very old, very cold country.
“You tied it yourself?” he asked, glancing at my tie.
“Does it matter?”
“No. It’s good.” Something unreadable crossed his face. “Remember. Say nothing. Eat. Watch.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And Ren?”
“What?”
“Whatever she says to you, whatever she offers...” He paused. “Don’t believe it, but don’t dismiss it either. She’s never lied to me. That’s what makes her so hard to read.”
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Before I could ask what that meant, the doors slid open.
The dining room was long and narrow, lit by paper lanterns. A low black table stretched down the middle, set for six. The air smelled of cedar and incense and something expensive and cold underneath.
Three people were already seated.
At the head of the table sat a man in his late fifties, with iron-gray hair, a face carved from granite, and a stare that made me feel like a bug on a pin. Kurose Soichiro. Chairman of the Group. Jin’s father.
To his right sat a heavier man, about fifty, with a florid, jovial face, a ruby ring on one finger, and a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Uncle Gen. I’d read the headline: Kurose Gen, CEO of Kurose Bank, to challenge for chairmanship.
And across from them, in a pale silk kimono the color of cherry blossom, her hair pinned up with a single gold comb, sat a woman I couldn’t look away from.
Reina.
I don’t know how to describe her. She wasn’t the prettiest woman I’d ever seen. But she was the first person I’d ever met who made a room rearrange itself around her. She sat very straight, hands folded, head tilted slightly, with a smile so warm, so genuine, so devastatingly kind that every instinct in my body screamed run.
“You must be Hoshina-kun,” she said. Her voice was soft and low and sweet. “Jin has told us so much about you.”
“Has he?”
“Oh, he hasn’t said a word. That’s how I knew you were important.”
Uncle Gen laughed, a big, booming, oily sound. Even Soichiro’s mouth twitched.
I bowed. Sat. And did exactly what I’d been told.
I watched.
The meal was a twelve-course kaiseki that tasted like money. Tiny sculptures of fish, delicate broths, vegetables arranged like flowers. I ate everything I was handed and tasted none of it.
Reina talked. Effortlessly. Brilliantly. She asked about my mother’s recovery, and my sister’s school, and my scholarship. She remembered the name of every servant who served us, asked about their children, their health, their favorite foods. Every time a maid came in, Reina’s face lit up like she’d run into an old friend.
It was charm. It was terrifying charm.
And somewhere between the sixth course and the seventh, I noticed the pattern.
She never looks at her phone.
She didn’t have one on the table. It wasn’t in her sleeve. It wasn’t anywhere. In a room full of people who checked theirs every few minutes, she sat with her hands folded and her eyes on whoever was speaking, like nothing else existed.
Why not?
I kept watching. Reina laughed at something Gen said. Touched her left earlobe. Tilted her head. And her smile widened, just slightly, just a millimeter too far.
I knew that smile.
I’d worn it for three years. It was the smile you wear when you’re lying to your mother about your back.
She’s lying. Right now. About something.
My stomach clenched.
That’s when the old woman came in.
She was small and stooped, maybe seventy, in a plain gray kimono. Her hair was white and thin. Her hands were gnarled, and trembling slightly as she carried a lacquered tray of sake cups.
“Tomie,” said Reina warmly. “You didn’t have to carry that yourself.”
“It’s no trouble, Reina-ojousama.” The old woman bowed. Her voice was thin, papery. “I wanted to, I...”
She trailed off.
Her hands tightened on the tray. She looked around the room, confused, her mouth working. A frown creased her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I was going to, I came in to serve, I... what was I...”
“It’s alright, Tomie.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know where I...” A tear slid down the old woman’s cheek. “It keeps happening. I used to know everything. I raised you, ojousama. I knew every, every one of your birthdays. Every song you liked. I...” Her voice cracked. “I can’t remember your name.”
Silence.
The sake cups rattled on the tray.
Reina rose gracefully, crossed the room, and took the old woman’s hands in hers. “Tomie. It’s alright. Look at me.”
The old woman looked.
“It’s Reina,” Reina said, gently. “My name is Reina.”
“Reina,” Tomie whispered. A faint, bewildered smile broke through her tears. “Reina. That’s right. That’s a pretty name.”
“You gave it to me.”
“Did I?”
“You did.” Reina’s smile was warm. Kind. Heartbreakingly tender. “Go and rest. I’ll have the others finish.”
The old woman nodded and shuffled out, murmuring Reina, Reina, Reina under her breath like a prayer she was afraid to lose.
The door slid shut.
And I saw it. Just for a moment, as Reina turned back to the table.
Her head tilted. Her smile widened.
One millimeter too far.
“You noticed.”
I jumped.
It was nearly ten p.m. The meal had ended. Gen and Soichiro had retreated to the study to discuss business, leaving the younger generation to “get to know each other.” Jin had vanished. I’d been left standing alone on the veranda, staring out at the moss garden, trying not to throw up.
Reina stood beside me, a cup of tea in her hands. Moonlight silvered her hair. Up close, she smelled like jasmine and expensive soap.
“Noticed what?”
“Tomie.” She sipped. “Don’t pretend. You saw my face. You’re the first person in six years who’s looked at me and seen.”
My throat went dry. “I didn’t see anything.”
“You’re a bad liar, Hoshina-kun.”
“People keep telling me.”
“It’s a compliment.” She turned to face me fully. “It means you care. Liars who are good at it have usually stopped.”
“What do you want?”
“To help you.”
I almost laughed. “That’s what everyone says.”
“But I mean it.” She stepped closer. Her eyes were large and dark and sorrowful, and for a heartbeat I almost believed her. “You’ve lost a lot this month, haven’t you? Memories. Pieces of yourself. And you’re afraid of losing more.”
“How do you...”
“Because I know exactly what it feels like.”
She reached out. Touched my tie, her fingers lightly tracing the knot.
“A Windsor,” she said. “Crisp. Perfect. That’s not your knot. Somebody else tied this.” Her smile softened into something almost wistful. “Someone who loves you.”
My heart stuttered.
“Don’t,” I said hoarsely. “Don’t touch that.”
“I’m sorry.” She withdrew her hand at once. “That was cruel of me. I’m not usually so careless.”
“What do you want?”
“A proposal.” She said it calmly, like someone ordering coffee. “Not Jin’s. Mine.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You haven’t heard it.”
“I don’t need to.”
“Ren.” The first time she’d used my given name. “What if there were a way to use it, as much as you wanted, and never lose a single thing?”
Everything in me went still.
“No cost,” she said softly. “No holes. No missing faces. No Mio.”
My blood turned to ice.
“You, how do you...”
“I know a lot of things.” She tilted her head. Smiled. A millimeter too wide. “I know that girl is the only one who remembers who you used to be. And I know that every time you use it again, you’ll lose a little more of her. Until one day, there’s nothing left to remember.”
“Stop.”
“I can make it stop.”
“How?”
“By teaching you where the cost goes.” She leaned in, close enough that I could feel her breath. “Come and see me. Tomorrow. Alone. And I’ll show you the other side of the app.”
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
From the shadows at the end of the veranda, a voice cut through the silence like a knife.
“Reina.”
She straightened. Her expression didn’t change. She sipped her tea.
Jin stood at the far end of the porch, hands at his sides, face blank. But his eyes were burning.
“Brother,” said Reina sweetly. “Just getting to know your friend.”
“I can see that.”
“He’s lovely. You should have introduced us earlier.” She set down her cup, brushed a speck of dust off her sleeve, and glided toward the door. “Goodnight, Hoshina-kun. Think about my offer.”
She was gone.
Jin and I stood in silence for a long time.
The koi pond rippled. A cold wind stirred the maples. In my pocket, the little silver star pressed against my leg like a heartbeat.
“What did she offer you?” Jin asked quietly.
I thought about lying.
I thought about the crooked tie in the stairwell, and six seconds of Mio’s hands on my neck, and the old woman’s whisper. Reina. Reina. Reina.
I thought about every memory I’d lost, and every one I’d yet to lose.
“A way out,” I said.
Jin’s face didn’t move.
But something behind his eyes went very, very cold.