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“The ginkgo leaves fall onto the patio, heavy with the morning rain. I look at them and remember how foolish my mind was three years ago. I believed the world was made of the same delicacy as the silks my father traded. I remember hearing Eiichiro-sama's voice in the anteroom, firm and promising, and feeling my chest fill with childlike hope. I thought affection was something cultivated over time, like tea steeping in hot water. What folly. The fragility of that illusion was the first blood I wiped from this ground.”