Semua Bab He Chose my Cousin, so I Chose Revenge: Bab 161 - Bab 170

The first week after the last article ran, the boutique felt both familiar and different at the same time. Customers still came in quietly, moving their fingers over the fabrics like they were touching something alive, but there was an edge of recognition in their eyes now. Some had clearly read about us before walking through the door. Others tried not to say it outright but slipped small comments into conversation, as if to confirm that they were in the right place.I began noticing how often people lingered longer than they used to. They took photos of details I never thought anyone would notice, like the curve of a neckline on a mannequin or the way the light from the front windows caught the weave of a particular fabric in the afternoon. One woman asked to take a picture of the small handwritten tag we keep beside the register that explains our return policy. She told me later it was because she wanted to show her daughter that a business could be gentle and firm at the same time

The morning light in Kyoto was softer than I expected. It didn’t push through the windows the way it did back home. Instead, it eased in slowly, touching the walls as though it was checking if the day was ready. I sat at the small table in my hotel room with a cup of tea, watching the steam rise in delicate swirls. Today was my first full day at the artisan’s workshop, and I could feel a quiet anticipation sitting just under my skin.Julian had offered to walk me there, but I told him I wanted to make the journey alone. Not because I didn’t want him with me, but because I wanted to take in the walk without conversation, to notice the sound of the street and the way the shopfronts looked before the shutters came up. The air was cool but carried a faint warmth from the sun that was just beginning to climb.The workshop sat at the end of a narrow lane lined with small houses and potted plants. I might have missed it if I didn’t know what I was looking for. There was no sign, just a slidi

The second morning in Kyoto felt a little different from the first. The sunlight still entered the room slowly, as though it was asking permission before crossing the threshold, but there was a faint heaviness in the air that I could not explain. I sat on the floor cushion by the low table, sipping the green tea the hotel staff had left outside my door. The street below was quiet except for the occasional sound of a bicycle passing and the soft hum of a shop owner rolling open the shutters.I had planned to spend the morning at the workshop again. Nakamura-san had said he would show me the second stage of the dye process, the part that required the most precision. I was looking forward to it, not because I wanted to master it quickly, but because there was something steadying about being in that space. It asked nothing from me except attention.Julian knocked once before letting himself in. He was carrying two small paper bags from the café across the street. I could smell the warm br

The morning we left Kyoto, the sky was pale and washed clean from a light rain in the night. I could still smell it in the air when we stepped outside, the kind of scent that clung to stone and wood longer than it did to the leaves. Julian carried our small suitcases, and I had the silk roll tucked carefully under my arm. It was not finished, but it felt like something I wanted to keep close, the way you hold a thought you are not ready to say aloud.Kyoto Station was already alive with movement. Commuters walked quickly in neat lines, shopkeepers arranged trays of breakfast pastries behind glass, and the recorded announcements echoed gently from the high ceiling. We moved with the current until we found our platform. The train was already waiting, long and bright, its windows catching the morning light.Inside, the seats faced forward in quiet rows. I took the window, sliding the silk onto the seat between us before settling my bag at my feet. Julian sat beside me, looking out as the

The first night back in my own bed felt heavier than I expected. It was not from the travel itself but from the shift in pace. Kyoto had been deliberate in its rhythm, each day shaped by the work and the quiet in between. Here, the hours felt more crowded even before they had begun. Julian cooked something simple — pasta, roasted vegetables, a salad we put together at the table. The kitchen window was open, and the night air came in cool. It carried the sound of someone’s music from across the street, faint enough that I could only catch the rise and fall of a melody. “When do you plan to show the Kyoto pieces?” he asked, passing me a plate. I twirled the pasta with my fork before answering. “Not yet. I do not want a big announcement. I want them to appear without explanation, almost as if they have been here all along.” Julian sat back in his chair, studying me. “You are not worried people will miss them if you do not point them out?” “If they miss them, they were not meant