The scent of tatami and incense still lingered in the hallways of the Saitō family ryokan, tucked near the quiet shorelines of Kisarazu. The inn had stood for three generations, its wooden beams slightly weathered, its paper lanterns dim with the soft confidence of tradition. Every spring, the cherry trees lining the garden would erupt in clouds of blush-colored petals, drawing guests from Chiba to Tokyo seeking serenity.
Haruki moved through these spaces like a ghost who belonged—refilling teapots, folding futons, helping his father balance the books late into the night. At nineteen, he had mastered the rhythm of service, yet his mind always wandered elsewhere—toward circuits, machine learning threads, and startup blogs he read in secret under his futon by flashlight.
But here, he was simply "Haruki-kun," the quiet son, the obedient nephew, the reliable one.
His father, Masanori Saitō, was a gentle man with fox-gray hair and a laugh like rippling water. He never understood Haruki's fascination with technology, but he admired the fire in his son's eyes when he talked about building something of his own.
"You don't have to follow this path," Masanori once said over miso soup. "Tradition is strong, yes. But legacy... legacy is what you build, not just what you inherit."
Those words stayed with Haruki, etched like calligraphy in his memory.
And then there was Emi—the heart Haruki didn't know he was protecting until it fluttered. She was bright, unafraid to tease his silences, her laughter folding into the wind as they rode her scooter through narrow backstreets. They carved their initials into a cherry tree behind the ryokan. She kissed him under its petals. "Promise me," she whispered once, fingers curled into his sleeve, "we'll leave this town and make something bigger."
Haruki had nodded.
But spring, as beautiful as it was, never stayed. The blossoms would fall, the lanterns would go out, and underneath it all, some roots would rot unseen.
Masanori's cough, once dismissed as seasonal, returned sharp and merciless. The diagnosis came like a lightning strike—lung cancer, already far along. Within two months, the man who held the inn and the family together was a memory.
And that's when the shadows stirred.