Chapter 1: Steel and a Voicemail
The bass thrummed through the floorboards like a second heartbeat, and Yuki felt it in her knees, in her teeth, in the small bones of her wrists as she knelt on the worn wood. Her bedroom door was closed, but the party downstairs didn't care about doors. It didn't care about anything. Kenji's voice boomed somewhere below, followed by a chorus of laughter that rattled the faded Seven Samurai poster on her wall.
She dipped the choji oil cloth into the small ceramic dish and watched the blade catch the lamplight. The katana lay bare across the black silk cloth she'd spread over her lap, its curve elegant and deadly, the hamon line rippling along the edge like a frozen wave. Her mother's sword. Her mother's family sword, really, passed down through generations of samurai who had served lords Yuki would never meet, in a Japan she'd only read about in books.
The steel was cold against the cloth. She wiped in slow, even strokes, the way she'd been taught. Not by her father, obviously. Her father didn't know the first thing about swords. He saw a hunk of old metal, a curiosity, something to display in a glass case like a butterfly pinned to velvet.
The voicemail played on speaker from her phone, propped against a textbook on the floor.
"Yuki, it's your father."
She wiped. Down the length of the blade, careful, precise.
"I've been thinking about that old relic in your room. The sword. I had a man from the auction house take a look at some of the antiques in the study last week, and he mentioned there's quite a market for Japanese blades right now. Collectors, mainly. American buyers, mostly, but they pay well."
Her jaw tightened. The cloth squeaked against steel.
"I've already found a buyer, actually. A private collector in New York. Very interested. I'll have someone come by next week to appraise it properly and arrange transport. I know you're attached to it, but let's be practical. It's just gathering dust up there. Your mother would understand."
The last sentence landed like a slap. Yuki's fingers curled into the cloth until her knuckles went white. The blade trembled against her thighs.
"Anyway, I'll call you when I have the details. Don't make this difficult, Yuki. We both know you have no use for it."
The voicemail ended with a click.
She didn't move. The party downstairs pulsed on, oblivious. Someone had turned the music up, and she could feel the bass in her sternum now, a dull thud that matched the blood pounding in her ears.
Breathe in. Count. One.
Sensei Mori's voice in her head, calm and steady. She'd heard it a thousand times in the dojo, during matches, during drills, during the long hours when her arms burned and her lungs screamed and all she wanted to do was drop the shinai and walk away. He never let her. He always said the same thing.
The anger is a guest. You choose whether to let it stay.
Breathe out. Two.
She thought about her father's smooth voice, the way he said "your mother would understand" like he had any idea what her mother would have wanted. Like he'd known her mother at all. He'd married her for her family name, for the connections, for the story he could tell at dinner parties about his exotic Japanese wife with the samurai ancestors. And when she died, he'd packed away everything that reminded him of her and married a woman who matched his new furniture.
Breathe in. Three.
Yuki finished the wipe. She set the cloth aside and lifted the blade, turning it so the light slid along its edge. Perfect. Clean. Ready.
She slid it back into its saya, the wooden scabbard clicking soft and final, and hung it back on the wall where it had lived since she was nine years old. The cloth wrap looked tired. Faded. She'd need to replace it soon.
Breathe out. Four.
The anger was still there. It sat behind her ribs like a hot coal, compact and patient, waiting for something to feed it. She pressed her palm flat against her chest and felt her heartbeat, steady and strong. You choose whether to let it stay.
She chose not to. For now.
The party erupted in another wave of laughter, and Yuki stood up, her knees popping. She was still in her jeans and t-shirt, her boots by the door. She hadn't planned to go downstairs. She'd planned to stay up here, hidden, waiting for Kenji's friends to leave so she could raid the kitchen in peace.
But the voicemail was still playing in her head, looping, and she needed something to drown it out.
She pulled open her door and stepped into the hallway. The music hit her like a wall, all bass and synth and someone's terrible karaoke voice shouting along. The house was packed. Kenji had really gone all out, probably because Dad and whats-her-name were sunning themselves at the villa in Cabo and wouldn't be back for another week.
Kenji. Her brother. Her only real ally in this family, the only person who'd ever looked at her and seen her instead of a problem to be managed. He'd been the one to teach her to ride a bike. He'd been the one to hold her when she cried after their mother's funeral, seventeen years old and trying so hard to be strong. He'd been the one to smuggle her into R-rated samurai films when she was twelve, even though Dad would've killed him.
She loved him. She also wanted to strangle him right now for throwing this stupid party.
Yuki made her way down the stairs, weaving through bodies. The living room had been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against the walls, someone's playlist thumping through the speakers Kenji had rented for the occasion. A girl in a crop top spilled beer on the carpet. Two guys were arguing about something in the corner, their faces red and animated. Yuki ignored them all.
The kitchen was quieter, scattered with red cups and half-empty bottles of liquor. She didn't know what most of it was. She didn't drink, not really. But tonight felt different. Tonight the anger needed something to sit in.
She grabbed a bottle at random. Clear liquid, fancy label, probably vodka. She didn't care. She uncapped it and took a long swig, grimacing as it burned her throat.
The back door was unlocked. She slipped out into the cool night air, the noise of the party fading to a dull roar behind her.
The garden was dark, lit only by the light spilling from the kitchen windows and a sliver of moon above the trees. Her mother's garden. Roses and hydrangeas, wild now, neglected since her mother died. Yuki had tried to keep it up for a while, but she'd been twelve and grieving and she'd killed half the plants before Sensei Mori gently suggested she focus on her kendo instead. The garden had been slowly reclaiming itself ever since.
She sat on the stone steps leading down to the lawn, the concrete cold through her jeans. The bottle hung from her fingers, condensation dripping onto her knee. She took another drink. Smaller this time. The burn was easier to handle.
The tears came suddenly, without warning, hot and stupid and infuriating. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, furious at herself for crying, furious at her father for making her cry, furious at the whole stupid world for being what it was. She thought about her mother's hands on the sword, teaching her the proper grip for the first time. She thought about the way her mother used to laugh, quiet and warm, like a secret she was sharing just with Yuki. She thought about the funeral, about watching them lower the coffin into the ground, about the way her father had stood there in his expensive suit looking bored.
She took another drink.
Behind her, someone coughed.
Yuki's whole body went rigid. She wiped her face fast, angry at being caught, and turned to see who it was.
Kyle.
Her breath caught in her throat like a fish on a hook.
He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the kitchen light, a red cup in his hand and a crooked smile on his face. He was tall, taller than Kenji, with dark hair that fell across his forehead and eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He was wearing a flannel shirt over a band t-shirt, and his jeans were worn at the knees, and he looked so familiar that Yuki's chest ached.
Kyle. Kenji's best friend since middle school. The boy who'd taught her to throw a football. The boy who'd helped her with her algebra homework when Kenji was too busy. The boy she'd been silently, hopelessly, desperately in love with since she was fourteen years old.
"Hey," he said, his voice easy and warm. "Didn't know anyone else was out here."
Yuki's mouth was dry. She swallowed. "Just needed some air."
He nodded, like that made perfect sense, and crossed the patio to sit beside her on the steps. Close. Too close. Close enough that she could smell him, cedar and something sweet, maybe cologne, maybe just him.
"That's a serious bottle," he said, nodding at the vodka. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You're crying."
She wiped her face again, harder this time. "I'm not."
Kyle didn't push. He just sat there, sipping his drink, looking out at the dark garden. The silence between them was comfortable, the kind she remembered from years ago, back when they were kids and the world was simpler.
"I heard about your dad," he said finally. "Kenji mentioned the sword thing."
Yuki's grip tightened on the bottle. "Of course he did."
"He's worried about you."
"He's always worried about me." She took a drink. "He doesn't need to be."
Kyle was quiet for a moment. Then: "Tell me about her."
"Who?"
"Your mom. You never talk about her."
Yuki stared at him. The question caught her off guard, and she didn't know what to do with it. Nobody ever asked. Nobody wanted to hear about the dead woman, about the mother who'd left her a sword and a garden and a hole in her chest that wouldn't close.
"She was..." Yuki started, then stopped. "She was Japanese. From an old family. Samurai descendants, supposedly. She used to tell me stories about her ancestors, about the battles they fought, the lords they served. I thought they were fairy tales."
"They weren't?"
She shook her head. "The sword's real. It's been in her family for centuries. My father thinks it's junk."
"He's an idiot."
Yuki laughed, surprised. It came out sharp and genuine, and she clapped a hand over her mouth like she could take it back. Kyle was grinning at her, that crooked grin that made her stomach flip.
"What?" she demanded.
"Nothing. You just haven't changed."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged, still grinning. "You're still the same girl who beat me at arm wrestling when you were thirteen."
"You let me win."
"I absolutely did not."
"You did. I could tell."
"I was fourteen. You were thirteen. There's no way I let you win."
They were both laughing now, the sound mingling with the muffled bass of the party behind them. Yuki felt something loosen in her chest, the tight coil of anger and grief giving way, just a little, to something lighter.
"Your stepmom still awful?" Kyle asked.
Yuki snorted. "She redecorated my mom's study. Turned it into a yoga room."
"No."
"Yes. She says it's good for her chakras."
"God."
Yuki took another drink, smaller this time, and passed the bottle to Kyle. He took it, their fingers brushing briefly, and Yuki's heart did a stupid little flip in her chest.
"She hates the sword," Yuki said. "Says it's creepy. Wants me to get rid of it."
"She ever hold it?"
"No. She's scared of it."
"Good. She should be."
Yuki looked at him. He was watching the garden, the moonlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. He took a drink from the bottle, and she watched his throat move as he swallowed.
She thought about all the times she'd imagined this moment. All the nights she'd lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Kyle's smile, Kyle's hands, Kyle's voice. All the times she'd rehearsed things she might say to him, things that might make him see her the way she saw him.
Her hand was resting on the step beside her. Kyle's hand was resting on the step beside his. The space between them was maybe six inches. She could feel the heat of his skin like it was a physical thing.
She wanted him to touch her. She wanted it so badly it hurt.
But she didn't move. She couldn't. The shyness was a wall, old and familiar, and she didn't know how to climb it.
"So," Kyle said, breaking the silence. "You still doing the kendo thing?"
"Yeah. I'm on the university team."
"That's awesome. I remember watching you at that tournament, the one in high school. You were incredible."
"You came to that?"
He looked at her, and something in his eyes shifted. Softened. "I came to all of them."
Yuki's heart stopped. Then started again, too fast, too loud.
"Oh," she managed.
"Yeah." He looked away, back at the garden. "Kenji used to drag me. Said I needed to support his baby sister. But I would've gone anyway."
Yuki didn't know what to say. Her brain had gone blank, filled with white static, and she could feel her face going red. She hoped it was too dark for him to notice.
The party pulsed on behind them, muffled and distant. A breeze rustled through the hydrangeas, and Yuki shivered.
"You cold?" Kyle asked.
"A little."
He hesitated. Then he shifted closer, just an inch, just enough that their shoulders almost touched. "Better?"
Yuki's breath caught. She could smell him again, cedar and sweetness, and her whole body was aware of him in a way that made her feel dizzy.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Better."
They sat like that for a long moment, neither moving, neither speaking. Yuki could hear her own heartbeat, loud and insistent, and she wondered if he could hear it too.
His hand was still on the step between them. She watched it out of the corner of her eye, watched his fingers flex slightly, like he was thinking about moving them.
Move, she thought. Please move.
He didn't.
But he didn't move away, either. And that was something. That was maybe everything.
The back door opened behind them, spilling light and noise onto the patio. Yuki flinched, pulling away, and Kyle did the same. A couple stumbled out, laughing, too drunk to notice them sitting there.
Yuki stood up, brushing off her jeans. "I should go back in."
"You don't have to."
She looked down at him. He was still sitting, looking up at her with those dark eyes, and she wanted to stay. She wanted to stay so badly it was a physical ache.
"I have to," she said. "Kenji will worry."
Kyle nodded slowly. Then he stood, too, and for a moment they were standing face to face, close enough that she could count his eyelashes.
"Yuki," he said.
"Yeah?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Shook his head. "Nothing. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
She walked back to the house, her legs trembling, her heart pounding. At the door, she paused and looked back. Kyle was still standing by the steps, watching her, the bottle hanging from his fingers.
She lifted her hand in a small wave. He smiled and lifted his hand back.
Yuki went inside, and the party swallowed her up.
But all night, she felt the ghost of his presence beside her. All night, she replayed the moment over and over in her head. His hand on the step. His almost-touch. His eyes in the dark.
And she wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd been waiting for her to move first.