Young sparrows flocked over the tree outside the window. Snow dripped down slowly and delicately. The morning air was fresh, with the cherry blossoms making it even fresher. The fresh morning air carried in a pleasant scent of blooming cherry blossoms into the room. Yet Shiori Ayuzawa, dressed in a pristine white kimono with a crimson obi tied with a silver obijime, felt no trace of the serenity outside.
Her gaze lingered on the sparrows, her heart aching with envy. If only I could be like them—free to soar wherever I want. But freedom wasn’t a gift the Ayuzawa family afforded their daughters. At fifteen, she was shackled by tradition, staring down the looming ritual that would define her existence.
The creak of the sliding door broke her thoughts. Her mother’s voice,deceptively soft, filtered in. "Ririchyo, let me help you with your hair." Shiori’s chest tightened. She turned her head slightly, her voice quiet but firm. "Mom, I'm not Ririchyo, I'm Shiori." said the sad girl, despite knowing what outcome she had to face in the end, especially if she said it during the ritual. " Child, do not make me hit your face. Today you are Ririchyo, the great Lady that founded our Ayuzawa family, and today is the day she died. When I was your age, being Ririchyo was an honour! The pain received from getting hit with a blade was awarded a buffet all for myself! At least suck it up!"
"But Mom! I did nothing wrong why must I endure the pain of someone I don't even know-"
A wave of pain welled up on her head as Shiori's mom threw her head to the floor and hit her face with a wooden stick at a corner of the room." *Fubuki, stop." The use of the name stung more than the blow itself. Fubuki—a snowstorm, something to be feared, avoided. The name wasn’t a warning. It was a declaration: You are unwanted.
Shiori choked back tears, the taste of copper sharp in her mouth. The mask of kindness slipped back onto her mother’s face as she knelt down and gently lifted Shiori’s chin. "Ririchyo, I will make your hair pretty, ok?" Her tone was sweet, but Shiori could feel the venom beneath it.
Unable to speak, Shiori nodded. Her mother’s hands worked swiftly, weaving the hair into an intricate style fit for a ceremony. The weight of the ritual pressed down on her like the cold of a snowstorm she could never escape.
*Fubuki- 吹雪; meaning is a snowstorm. If you were to experience a snowstorm, you will feel scared and worried. However, when Shiori's mother used this as a substitute for Shirori's name, the woman wanted Shiori to know that like most people who hope not to encounter a snowstorm, her existence to the woman is scary and not needed.
YOU ARE READING
Yukikaze
RomanceEmbark on a journey as a girl who was known as Fubuki became a well-known lady known as Yukikaze escapes from her family and learns secrets of her family.
