Page 8 of Kotori

Paige

The classroom puts every elite private school I've worked in to shame. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook gardens where morning sunlight sets dew sparkling across grass.

I arrange my teaching materials. Three distinct stations—one for each daughter, tailored to their ages and English proficiency.

Mizuki at eighteen is practically fluent but needs help with complex idioms and writing nuance.

Kohana at thirteen reads at college level but struggles with speaking confidence.

Aya at six needs foundational building blocks, though she speaks at a level that would shame most American first-graders.

The sliding door opens with whisper-quiet precision. Hayashi appears, standing as if a steel rod replaced her spine. Behind her, the three Matsumoto daughters enter in age order, dressed in designer versions of Japanese school uniforms.

"The young ladies are ready for their instruction," Hayashi announces.

The girls arrange themselves at their stations without a word. Mizuki's face reveals nothing beyond cool assessment. Kohana studies me with scholarly interest, while Aya vibrates with barely contained excitement.

"Good morning, girls," I say with my brightest teacher smile.

Silence. Three pairs of dark eyes stare back at me.

"I've prepared individual lessons based on your current levels. We'll start with—"

"Excuse me," Mizuki interrupts, her English perfect but ice-cold. "That is not how lessons begin in this household."

The certainty in her voice stops me short. At eighteen, she speaks with the authority of someone used to being obeyed.

"I'm sorry?" I look between them, suddenly off-balance. "How should we begin?"

Mizuki performs a formal bow, back straight, eyes lowered. Her sisters follow immediately, Kohana with precise correctness, Aya with enthusiastic if imperfect form.

"Ohayo gozaimasu, Williams-sensei," they chorus together.

I recognize the Japanese greeting but hadn't expected such formality from children. "Good morning," I respond with a smile, still standing.

Mizuki's gaze flicks upward, catching mine with a flash of disapproval. "The teacher returns the bow and greeting properly," she says. "Then we may begin."

Of course. I bow awkwardly, trying to remember how deeply is appropriate, feeling ridiculous in my Western attire attempting Japanese formality.

"Ohayo... gozaimasu," I attempt, mangling the pronunciation. Those few Japanese lessons I took in college seem so far away now.

Mizuki's lips press into a thin line. Kohana looks embarrassed for me. Aya grins widely.

"You'll learn," Mizuki says, tone suggesting doubt. "We begin each session with proper greetings, then formal seating, then the lesson outline. After receiving the outline, we express gratitude before beginning work."

This level of ceremony for an English lesson feels absurd, but I'm not in a position to argue. "Thank you for explaining," I say instead. "I'll remember for tomorrow."

"You'll remember for today," Mizuki corrects. "We will begin again. Properly."

The steel in her voice echoes her father's, raising goosebumps on my arms. I nod, stepping back to the doorway as the girls rearrange themselves.

This time I enter after them, bow when they bow, fumble through the Japanese greeting, present the lesson outline formally, wait for their expressions of gratitude, and only then begin the actual teaching.

By the time we start the lesson, I feel like I've already failed some critical test.

Two hours later, my head throbs with the effort of navigating invisible cultural land mines. The English portion went smoothly enough—all three girls are intelligent and well-prepared. But everything surrounding the teaching is a maze of protocols I don't understand.

When Aya drops her pencil, I reach to pick it up and receive a sharp correction from Mizuki about appropriate roles and behaviors.

When I praise Kohana's grammar, I apparently use the wrong honorific and cause her face to flush with embarrassment.

When I suggest a break, I discover there's a precise form for that too—one that requires permission rather than teacher authority.

I feel like I'm teaching in handcuffs, bound by rules no one has explained.

"Very well," Mizuki says when our session concludes. "We will end for today."

Again, the sisters rise in unison, bow with synchronized precision, and thank me with formal phrases that Mizuki has to quietly prompt me to answer correctly.

As they file out, Aya hesitates, glancing back with a small smile. "Your Japanese will get better, Williams-sensei," she says in English, her voice encouraging.

The simple kindness nearly brings tears to my eyes.

Mizuki notices, of course. Her sharp gaze moves between her sister and me before she places a hand on Aya's shoulder. "Come, Aya-chan. Father is waiting."

I sink onto my knees after they leave, exhaustion washing over me. Teaching has always been my refuge. The one place where I feel competent. Now even that has become another arena for failure.

Through the open window, I hear male voices in the garden below. One rises above the others—Kaito's distinctive baritone, speaking rapid Japanese to what sounds like a group of men. I move closer to the window, curious despite myself.

In the courtyard below, Kaito stands surrounded by four men in dark suits.

Their posture screams deference, while his radiates authority.

Even from this distance, I see the expensive cut of his suit, the way sunlight gleams on his watch as he gestures to emphasize some point.

The men around him nod frequently, one making rapid notes on a tablet.

Though I can't understand the language, the power dynamics are unmistakable. Then, without warning, Kaito looks up. Straight at my window. Straight at me.

I freeze, caught spying like a child. His expression doesn't change, but something tells me he's not surprised to find me watching. He holds my gaze before dismissing me with the slightest nod and returning to his conversation.

The message is clear: I am seen. I am allowed to observe only because he permits it.

I step back from the window, heart racing for no rational reason.

Lunch is served in a smaller dining room that still feels formal enough for a state dinner.

I hesitate in the doorway, unsure where to sit or if I'm expected to join the family. Hayashi materializes behind me like a ghost.

"The noon meal is served," she announces, though I can clearly see that. "You will sit there." She indicates a cushion that places me between Kohana and Aya, across from Mizuki.

I nod my thanks and move toward the designated spot, only to freeze when Hayashi makes a small sound of disapproval.

"Shoes," she says, glancing pointedly at my feet.

I look down, mortified to realize I'm still wearing my flats on the tatami. I hurriedly step back, slip off my shoes, and place them beside the others at the entrance.

By the time I take my seat, my cheeks burn with embarrassment. Mizuki observes with thinly veiled disdain, while Kohana examines her teacup. Only Aya offers a small, encouraging smile.

"Williams-sensei forgot shoes are dirty inside," she explains to her sisters in a loud whisper. "Americans wear shoes everywhere. Even in bed sometimes!"

"I don't wear shoes in bed," I clarify quickly, trying to salvage some dignity.

"The cultural differences are significant," Kohana says, her tone academic rather than judgmental. "In America, outside footwear inside homes is common. In Japan, it's considered extremely disrespectful."

"Extremely," Mizuki echoes, the word cutting.

The door slides open and everyone straightens. Kaito enters, suit jacket removed, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms decorated with intricate tattoos that disappear beneath expensive fabric. Despite the more casual dress, he radiates the same commanding presence as earlier.

The girls bow from their seated positions. I attempt to copy them, wobbling slightly as I try to maintain balance.

Kaito takes his place at the head of the table, dark eyes sweeping over everyone before settling on me. "I understand there were cultural adjustments during lessons this morning."

My stomach drops. Has Mizuki already reported my failures? "Nothing serious," I say quickly. "Just learning the proper protocols."

"Mizuki-chan is an excellent teacher," he says, voice neutral but eyes assessing. "You would do well to follow her example in matters of household etiquette."

The eighteen-year-old's spine straightens with pride at her father's praise.

The servers place elaborate meals before each of us—beautiful arrangements of rice, vegetables, fish, and pickled sides that look like magazine photography.

I wait for someone to begin eating, not wanting to commit another faux pas. No one moves.

"Itadakimasu," Kaito says, hands pressed together briefly.

The girls repeat the phrase, which I recognize as a pre-meal blessing of sorts. When they look at me expectantly, I attempt to mumble the words, butchering the pronunciation.

Aya giggles before Mizuki silences her with a look.

"Repeat after me," Kaito instructs, his voice patient but brooking no argument. "I-ta-da-ki-ma-su."

He breaks the word into syllables, watching my lips as I form each one. The focused attention makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"Itadakimasu," I manage, closer this time.

"Better." His approval shouldn't affect me, but warmth blooms in my chest anyway. "You will learn."

The meal proceeds with elaborate ritual I struggle to follow. Specific ways to hold chopsticks, precise orders for eating different dishes, proper placement of bowls—a choreography everyone but me has memorized.