A mildly distraught Katsura Kogoro pushes the shoji door of a private room in an Ochaya in Gion, but he refrains from knocking.

He enters and lets out a weary sigh.

Ikumatsu rushes to him, her worry etched on her face. Speaking with her usual Kyoto dialect and a concerned voice, she says, "Katsura-sama, what's wrong? Has something happened?" She swiftly takes his right hand gently with both of her beautiful hands.

He reciprocates the gesture, holding her hand, and speaks with fatigue in his voice, "Matsuno-ya was raided by the Shinsengumi. We were fortunate to receive a tip-off just in time. It was a narrow escape."

As Ikumatsu proceeds to pour him tea, Katsura continues, "I will gather the boys tonight for an urgent meeting. This will undoubtedly cause tension, but we cannot afford a breakdown at this moment."
"We must keep everyone's morale high. I'll need the girls to keep them company tonight."

Ikumatsu reassures him, placing a hand on Katsura's hand, and smiles gently as she says, "Please don't worry. I believe Harukaze, Sakurako, and the others will be able to serve them."

Katsura closes his eyes, attempting to find whatever rest he can while in her presence, and softly says, "Ikumatsu, will you play the Shinobue for me?"

Ikumatsu looks at him and smiles gently as she responds, "Of course, as many times as you want."

A gentle melody soon drifts across the room, hovering like the air. The sound envelops Katsura, lightening his spirits. For a while, he feels liberated within the confines of the room. This is a feeling that only Ikumatsu can provide, the only woman in his heart.

✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤

As the night descends, the Hanamachi in Gion awakens from its slumber. It's a world within a world. Stepping into it feels like being spirited away, a realm of illusion concealed behind its enigmatic facade.

It's akin to the human body. Once you strip away the beautiful skin, what remains are organs, blood, flesh, and bones.

Harukaze, in her endearing voice and lively expression unique to a Maiko, remarks, "I can never quite get used to those Choshuu men. They're loud and boisterous."

Sakurako, equally cheerful, chimes in, "But I always look forward to seeing that handsome samurai."

Umeko, one of their fellow Maiko, inquires with curiosity, "Are you talking about the beautiful samurai with the distinctive red hair?"

Sakurako excitedly responds, "Yes! When I first saw him, I thought he could pass for a girl. Well, except for the scar on his cheek."

Harukaze, her face dreamy, adds, "He is so beautiful, isn't he? I can't believe he can be a samurai amidst those rough Choshuu men."

She looks at Ikumatsu and says, "Isn't that right, Nee-san?"

Ikumatsu affectionately chuckles at the younger girls and says, "Are you all talking about Himura-san again?"

"I can't believe how happy you get when you hear that he might be coming."

Sakurako chuckles in response, playfully pouting, "But he is so difficult to approach. He barely ever speaks."

"I wish he would interact more."

The other Maikos nod in agreement.

Their conversation revolves around Himura for the rest of their journey to the Ryotei.

As Ikumatsu and the Maikos make their entrance into the grand hall, they exchange courteous greetings with the Choshu men they are meant to entertain for the evening, and perhaps even throughout the night. Amongst the alluring women, the Maikos share a unanimous fascination with a striking red-haired young samurai. He remains engrossed in his sake, seemingly impervious to their charms, while the other men's excitement grows at the sight of the beautiful entertainers.

The once somber atmosphere of the room experiences a sudden lift, punctuated by an eager voice declaring,
"Well, well! Now that the girls are here, let's set aside the gloomy conversations for later."

Himura, having completed his leisurely sip of sake, directs his gaze toward Katsura, who occupies the far end of the lengthy hall, and announces,
"Since we are done, I'll take my leave."

Iizuka interjects immediately, urging,
"Don't be such a bore, Himura. Why not stick around a bit longer?"

A mischievous grin forms on Iizuka's face, and he continues in a near-whisper,
"Unless... you're missing Tomoe-chan..."

Himura's response is swift, his expression darkening. Nevertheless, he remains, a sly grin of satisfaction playing on Iizuka's lips as Himura reaches for another cup of sake.

In an exquisite manner, Harukaze glides over to Himura's low table, positioning herself with an elegance that befits her grace. She assumes a perfect posture and addresses him in a delicate tone,
"My name is Harukaze," bowing gracefully.

Himura offers a slight bow, a subtle inclination of his head that almost resembles a nod, but he remains silent, withholding his introduction.

Harukaze, with poise, lifts the Tokkuri from his low table, expertly pouring a modest amount of sake into the Ochoko he cradles. He allows her this act.

Her radiant smile unwavering, she attempts to initiate a dialogue, asking, "Would you like to have some side dishes?"

He replies in a dry, disinterested tone,
"No."

This response aligns with Harukaze's expectations, as it has been the prevailing tone of the conversation during the time the other Maikos have entertained him. Maikos often feel exposed under the scrutinizing gaze of their patrons, whose company they are meant to delight. Some clients enjoy engaging in cultural discussions and appreciate the presence of educated beauties. However, the man before her does not fit any of these categories; he is simply indifferent.

Oddly, the more uninterested he appears, the more Harukaze is challenged to elicit a reaction from him.

She persists,
"Himura-sama, do you not enjoy our company?"

Himura maintains his prior tone,
"It is not that."

Harukaze comprehends that he is attempting to be courteous, recognizing that despite his dry responses, he views them as more than mere objects.

Harukaze senses an emerging desire within her, an urge to unravel the enigma of this young man before her. She silently wishes the Sake in his Ochoko would linger a while longer, her thoughts even drifting to the bottomless Tokkuri, a never-ending source to refill his cup.

Surveying his countenance, she ponders its unsuitability for a Samurai, let alone a man from the Choshuu clan. She can't fathom how such a delicate-looking individual could fit into their world. Yet, there is something about him that erects a barrier, making him hard to approach. She struggles to pinpoint its nature.

She contemplates that an experienced figure like Ikumatsu Nee-san might discern what eludes her.

She observes his Ochoko emptied, and, once more, he reaches for the Tokkuri, replenishing it. The slight shift in its weight arouses an almost palpable anxiety within her.

Her yearning to connect, to touch his emotions in some small way, propels her thoughts. She considers her approach and, masking traces of her anxiety with professional poise, she inquires,
"I've never seen you show interest in our establishment..."
"Do you, perhaps, have a woman who has captured your fancy?"

His elegant, long-fingered hand holding the Ochoko twitches for a fleeting moment. It is but a brief, discernible pause. A faint smile curls her lips, tinged with a mixture of excitement and jealousy. The excitement stems from finally provoking a reaction from him, and the jealousy arises from its cause not being her.

After that slight pause, he responds,
"..No."

She notices that, as he utters the word, there is an unusual stress, an emphasis, a subtle elevation in pitch compared to his prior tone.

A soft chuckle escapes her. She's witnessed this before, though not frequently.

This is a countenance she's seen on the faces of young, often arrogant customers experiencing Hanamachi for the first time. They struggle to resist losing themselves in the beguiling illusion of this place, an allure that only manifests in the lap of darkness, vanishing as the sun rises as if it had never existed.

Searching for the right word to convey her thoughts, she finally finds it.

Denial.

What she has perceived in him is unmistakably denial.

She reflects on a memory from her days in the Okiya, a recollection of Okasan, the Okiya's Okami-san, saying something that has remained etched in her mind. It was about a young Samurai who had been captivated by Sayuri-Neesan but, upon discovering her with another patron, had declared he would never set foot in the world of Hanamachi again. Harukaze recalls that she had been right beside Okasan, observing the situation closely.

Okasan had been smiling as she uttered,
"Harukaze, remember that expression well. That man will return."

Harukaze had gazed at her with curiosity and asked,
"But Okasan, he said he would never return, that he wanted nothing to do with Nee-san."

Okami-san had chuckled and responded,
"Exactly why he will return."

"Because, Harukaze, denial is like dandelions taking root in your heart. The more you try to remove them, deny them, the more they thrive. Before you know it, your heart will transform into a field of dandelions, consumed by them."

Harukaze, now a Maiko on the path to becoming a full-fledged Geisha, comprehends it all too well. As she gazes at the man seated before her, she silently contemplates,

"That which one endeavors to deny vehemently, if it demands such effort, perhaps it will soon become undeniable."

He finishes the last drop of Sake, setting the empty Ochoko gently upon the low table. With an unbroken stride, he departs, his gaze avoiding Harukaze.

A man's voice penetrates Harukaze's awareness,
"Himura, are you leaving already?"

He replies with succinctness,
"Yes."

Turning toward Katsura Kogoro, he offers a bow that appears more as a subtle inclination of the head. He then takes his leave, her gaze following his retreating form until it vanishes beyond the Shoji door.

As his presence recedes, the voices of the Choshuu men reach her ears.
"He's as unfriendly as ever."

One of the Choshuu men, a smile adorning his face, reassures her,
"Don't take it to heart. He's always like that."

✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤

Hanamachi, a world of illusions, is the place where Kasumi-san, Akane-san, Sakura-san, and others would have found themselves if luck graced their path. They would have stepped in this world if fate smiled upon them; otherwise, they'd plunge into a life of mere prostitution.

And at the thought of it, when I cast my eyes upon the men who regarded these women with a hunger akin to the way they'd eye a plate of food, as though these women were mere objects to sate their desires, anger stirs deep within me.

Kasumi-san, Akane-san, and Sakura-san could have been among them. But in all likelihood, they'd have suffered even greater hardships, treated worse than caged birds. When I ponder that, my hand twitches toward my Katana.

The vivid lights of Hanamachi churn my stomach.

As I depart the bounds of this world, it feels like entering another world, as if the illusions have been washed away by the water that someone poured upon it. But today, it seems, not as disillusioned as on most days.

I gaze upon the dark alleys, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight.

I cast my eyes upward to the waxing gibbous moon, illuminating this shadowy realm, as if it painted yet another illusion on this desolate land.

"Do you perhaps have a woman who has caught your interest?"

With an image of long, flowing, silk-like hair taking shape in my mind, I have a suspicion about who she might be. I cease breathing for a moment, aware that if I were to inhale, I would encounter a familiar scent. I don't extend the mental image far enough to discern her face.

Upon reaching Kohagiya, I recognize that it's been nearly a week since my last return at this hour. The last time was when I brought her here. Since then, there have been countless repetitions of Tenchū.

Will she be inside now? I contemplate, though why her presence matters so much is beyond my grasp.

I reconsider and make my way indoors. Climbing to the first floor, I spot the shoji door of my room, and a realization dawns upon me; she is inside.

Should I leave? But why does the notion even cross my mind? It's my room, and I've only permitted her presence. Stopping before the door, I ponder whether to knock. However, I admonish myself:

It is my room, and I've allowed her to stay. She must comprehend that as well.

Without knocking, I slide open the shoji door. In the dimly illuminated room, cast in moonlight, I find the woman seated in a gracefully composed seiza posture on the tatami floor. She wears a white Nagajuban Kimono, her usually restrained hair now cascades freely like a gentle waterfall, pooling on the tatami. Moonlight dances on her skin and hair.

I realize that I'm likely wearing the same expression I wore when gazing at the moon. The difference is, as I beheld the moon, I didn't wish to continue observing, while now, I possess an inexplicable yearning to do just that.

I belatedly notice the Hasami and a Suiban before her, along with the delicate flowers she gently sets upon the Kenzan, one by one.

Realizing I might have been gazing at her a tad too long, I swiftly attempt to break free from the trance. I make my way over to the window and seat myself on the Agari, as I often do, leaning against its edge.

She remains silent, never once casting a glance in my direction. That's her typical demeanor, and it no longer surprises me.

However, a sudden impulse takes hold of her. Without so much as a glance in my direction, she rises and moves towards the folded futons. I wonder if my presence in this room, amidst the shadows of Kohagiya, disturbs her. I'm quite certain it does. After all, she's a young woman.

She extracts a shawl from her small bundle of belongings. Perhaps she's feeling the chill. She's wearing nothing more than her Nagajuban, after all.

But then, she stops right in front of me. Puzzled, I raise my eyes to meet her, gazing at that beautiful visage I've been consciously avoiding these past several days.

She unfurls the shawl and begins to wrap it around me. I flinch, my muscles tensing. For a moment, it feels as though my body is on high alert, though I can't fathom what it's guarding against. I'm too stunned to utter a word.

As the shawl envelopes me, her fingernail lightly grazes the skin at the side of my neck, near my collarbone. A peculiar yet mild shiver courses through me, akin to the touch of cold water. I can sense my pulse beneath the spot where her fingernail traced its path. I feel as though I could retrace the exact route it followed on my skin.

She speaks in her gentle tone,
"You'll catch a cold."

Lowering my head, I aim to shield my face from her view. However, she simply turns around and resumes her work on the Kakei.

In a delayed response, I murmur,
"I haven't caught a cold since I was five years old."

As I inhale, the intoxicating scent of white plum envelops me, and that familiar sensation returns. It's like drowning, everything a blur, yet strangely comforting. I keep the shawl wrapped around me, just as she had placed it. My fingertips graze the soft fabric, and I realize that it's the same shawl that once adorned her. A peculiar feeling washes over me.

Suddenly, she turns her head and tilts it ever so slightly. In her deep, vacant eyes, I catch a glimmer of childlike curiosity. Our gazes meet, and I suspect that, in this very moment, my eyes mirror the same innocent wonder that I see in hers. She redirects her focus to the Kakei, plucking another flower and trimming it with a pair of Hasami.

I find myself wondering what's on her mind. Is not catching a cold since childhood such a peculiar thing?

Turning my attention to the Kakei, I'm reminded of the emotions that once stirred in me back in the Hanamachi. I shift my gaze away and peer through the window at the moonlight casting its glow upon the darkened streets.

"Why do you bother arranging these when you know they'll wither soon? Are you trying to display their beauty?" I ask, turning back to her, but her flow remains uninterrupted.

A few moments later, still avoiding my gaze, she responds,
"Hyakka tagatameni hiraku."

I'm puzzled, not grasping her meaning.
"What do you mean?" I inquire.

She turns her head slightly, addressing me.
"Who does the flower bloom for?"

I meet her gaze, attempting to decipher her message, but I remain perplexed. Perhaps sensing my confusion, she continues, her eyes locked onto mine,
"The flower blooms for no one but itself. Who am I to showcase its beauty to anyone?"

She persists while maintaining eye contact,
"The flower lives for a fleeting moment. But, do you know if its ephemeral existence is any less valuable than a life of immortality?"

Then, she shifts her attention back to the Kakei, and I sense that the light I once glimpsed in her eyes has been swallowed by something indistinct. I can't quite discern what it is.

It becomes evident that she isn't offering me a direct answer but, instead, leaving me with more questions.

I gaze at the flowers and silently ponder, I wonder what she sees when she looks at it.

I find myself acutely attuned to her every breath, every rise and fall of her chest, each subtle muscle movement. This awareness has become second nature to me, but why, I wonder, am I so conscious of it?

Her sudden voice pierces my contemplation.

"Were you in the Hanamachi with the others?"

My head is turned away, eyes fixed on the world outside the window. Yet, I sense her gaze upon me. This time, I resist the urge to meet her eyes, and a peculiar sense of unease grips me by the throat.

In a voice that betrays my discomposure, I reply, "Yes, but..."

"I wasn't..."

I realize I'm attempting an explanation, though I'm not entirely sure of what I'm trying to convey.

What, exactly, am I trying to say? I wasn't...what?

She abruptly cuts short my faltering explanation.

"But it is not a place that a young boy such as yourself should go to."

I find myself turning to look at her, almost as if to confirm what I've heard.

"A young boy..." I reiterate that phrase, and she tilts her head slightly as she continues to scrutinize me, like a cat keenly observing a curiosity.

A wave of confusion, annoyance, and irritation surges up from my core. It's written all over my face, mirroring my turbulent emotions.

So, that's the reason she's unfazed by our nighttime proximity, sharing the same room, concealed behind closed doors. To her, I'm not even a man.

As I contemplate this revelation, another wave of annoyance, even a touch of pain, washes through my chest. I can't quite comprehend what I'm feeling. It's probably the alcohol. I've indulged too much.

Almost defensively, I assert, "It's been over six months since my Genpuku." My voice unwittingly carries a trace of irritation. For the past few moments, my heart has raced, its rhythm accelerating.

I search her face for any sign of a changed expression, an altered emotion—no, perhaps what I'm truly seeking is a shift in her perception?

She lowers her eyelids momentarily, gazing at the tatami, before locking eyes with me once more. She offers,
"I see."
"A young man, then."

I find my eyelids closing almost too quickly, and a sudden rush of warmth spreads across my cheeks. I instinctively turn my head toward the window, concealing my face from her view. I hope the room is dim enough to shroud my embarrassment.

The wave of irritation and annoyance that had tormented me moments earlier dissipates as if it had never existed. In its place surges an unfamiliar warmth.

Her voice breaks through my thoughts, "Are you feeling unwell? Your face seems a bit flushed."

I respond promptly, my voice tinged with defensiveness, "No, it's just the sake."

Even now, I can't bring myself to look at her. I know what I'd see if I dared to meet her gaze. Her expression of concern isn't the same as the maikos' when they try to engage me. It resembles more the concern that Sakura-san and the others used to wear when they looked at me as a child. I dread that she might see me as a mere boy.

My thoughts, rather absurdly, keep circling around the word "man" that had slipped from her exquisite lips, conveniently ignoring other descriptors like "young" that accompanied it.

The image of her lips, with their elegantly curved cupid's bow and their natural crimson hue, immediately comes to mind. Yet still, I resist the urge to turn and confirm the accuracy of this image.

I'm greeted by her voice, gently inquiring,

"Will you sleep like that?"

I gather my thoughts and turn to meet her gaze, answering,

"Yes, it's how I've always slept."

I watch her carry the Kakei to the Tokonoma, placing it where I often find Ikebana at dawn, although I don't see her eyes on me. She remarks,

"Always?"

I shift my gaze back to the window and reply,

"Yes, since I was a child, training."

I hear her musing,

"Sleeping while sitting and holding a Katana?"

"Yes," I reiterate.

"I see," her voice fades as she silently proceeds to the corner where our futons rest.

Her footsteps are nearly soundless, graceful and quiet. She retrieves her futon, unfurls it, and gently lays it on the tatami. I keep my focus on the moonlight outside, sensing her movements in the room and the soft rustle of the futon.

Suddenly, I hear her voice.

"You say..." she begins. I turn to face her.

She's perched on the futon, smoothing it out.

She continues,

"...that you fight for a world where people can live in peace, equally."
She pauses a moment, then slides beneath the Kakebuton, turns her head slightly to meet my gaze, and adds,

"Isn't it you who is in need of it more than anyone?"

She studies me a while longer, not waiting for a response but for the truth to manifest on my face. I sense a subtle, crushing pain in my chest. I can't quite fathom why I feel this way.

She turns her gaze away as though she's found what she sought. Her slender, elegant fingers graze the hair along the side of her face, tucking it behind her ear, revealing the small, usually concealed, white ear and its subtly curved lobe. Her other hand sweeps her silken hair to the opposite side, exposing the long, porcelain neck that emerges beneath her ear. There, I notice a minuscule mole, almost imperceptible to the eye.

She reclines, cocooning herself beneath the Kakebuton and faces the other way. I can't see her face now, just a sliver of black hair and a glimpse of the pale skin at the nape of her neck. Memories of the night I brought her here flash before me. I realize her sleeping visage is etched into my memory.

I shift my focus to the window again. Her words linger in my mind,

"Isn't it you who is in need of it more than anyone?" I'm reluctant to confront the answer. I'm still swathed in her shawl, drowning in the lingering scent of Hakubaiko.

This isn't good. Her presence is unsettling.

Should I ensure she leaves Kohagiya?

A peculiar irritation grows within me as I consider it.

I can't. She's learned too much.

I reiterate it to myself.

The chirping birds rouse me. I feel the gentle warmth of sunlight on my face, realizing I've again slept deeply. I scan the room; the other occupant is absent. Her futon, once again, neatly folded beside mine in the corner.

My gaze drifts to the Tokonoma, holding what I expect—a Kakei, the one she was crafting last night.

Iris.

Prolonged scrutiny evokes a familiar disquiet akin to gazing upon her. I sigh and conclude to myself,

She is, undeniably, a danger.