He wasn’t a noble. He wasn’t a government official. He was just a man — tall, sharp-jawed, with the kind of silence that felt like a held breath. But he carried himself like someone who had forgotten how to bow. The neighbors called him arrogant . The landlord warned him twice about not saluting the morning broadcast. Jō-sama would just tilt his head, as if listening to a different frequency, and say nothing.
You found him packing a single bag. He looked up at you, and for the first time, his silence wavered. He wasn’t a noble
He didn’t read aloud. Instead, he said: "When I was a child, my grandmother told me that candles remember the people who’ve watched them. Every flicker is someone’s thought, still burning." But he carried himself like someone who had