The snow fell softly that evening, blanketing the rooftops of Kawamura, a small village nestled between the mountains of Tochigi Prefecture. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the faint echo of a radio playing enka music drifted from the sliding doors of old wooden homes.
Inside one such home, dimly lit by a single warm lantern, Veena worked quietly with needle and thread. Her hands moved with precision, but her eyes—tired and hollow—told a different story.
She was only twenty, but life had aged her faster than the seasons. Her marriage to Shinsuke Nakamura, the eldest son of the respected Nakamura family, was arranged and brief—ceremony, rice wine, a promise, and then he was gone again, teaching in Tokyo to support them all.
The Nakamura family was well-respected in Kawamura. People still spoke of Shinsuke's brilliance—how he'd topped his university entrance exams and was once offered a scholarship abroad. But instead of chasing dreams, he chose duty. He sacrificed everything to provide for his extended family, a choice that quietly chained Veena to the role of the forgotten wife.
"Why is the tea not ready yet, onēsan?"
A cold voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
Kamiko, Shinsuke's older sister, stood at the doorway, arms crossed, her lips curled in distaste. Her thick kimono was freshly pressed—Veena had ironed it herself just an hour ago.
Veena stood quickly and bowed. "Gomen nasai, Kamiko-san. I will bring it right away."
Behind her came Puruburō, Shinsuke's younger brother, tall, sharp-featured, and cruelly quiet. He gave Veena a sideways glance and chuckled.
"Still sewing those useless things? You think that's going to feed anyone here?"
Veena didn't respond. She knew better.
Kamiko stepped forward and grabbed the half-stitched yukata Veena was working on.
"You call this stitching? This is why our name is getting dragged in the market. No wonder the tailor down the street gets more customers!"
Puruburō laughed. "Maybe we should just send her back to her parents. Oh wait—she doesn't have anywhere else to go, does she?"
Veena bowed again. Her heart didn't hurt anymore. Not the way it used to. The pain had hardened into something else now—resolve.
"Shinsuke should've married someone better," Kamiko muttered as she walked away. "At least someone with a face."
The needle in Veena's hand paused mid-stitch as a sharp voice echoed from the next room.
"Haruna! Akari! Where do you think you're going?"
The sliding door creaked slightly as two tiny shadows scurried in, giggling. It was Haruna and Akari, the two young daughters of Puruburō, Veena's brother-in-law. Haruna, the elder at five, had a habit of sneaking into Veena's sewing corner with curious questions. Akari, only three, followed her everywhere like a shadow with pigtails.
"Obaa-chan, what are you making today?" Haruna asked, hopping up onto the tatami mat beside her.
Akari peeked over the edge of the low table and whispered, "Is it a baby kimono?"
Veena smiled softly. Her voice was gentle but warm.
"It might be. Do you want to help me pick a color for it?"
"Red!" Akari shouted, then covered her mouth, laughing. "No, blue! No… purple!"
Veena let out a quiet chuckle and reached for a spool of deep purple thread. "Maybe I'll use a little of all three, just for you."
But the warm moment shattered as fast as it formed.
The door slammed open.
"Oi! What did I say about going near that woman?!"
Puruburō stood there, jaw clenched, his gaze sharp like a blade. His yukata hung loose, and the smell of tobacco drifted from him like bitterness in the air.
Haruna froze. Akari whimpered.
"She was just showing us thread—" Haruna started.
"Thread won't raise you! Respect will!" he barked, storming in and grabbing Haruna by the wrist. "You think this is some playhouse? You think this woman will teach you anything useful?"
"Don't go near this ugly woman again. She's cursed. She'll fill your heads with useless dreams."
Veena's heart dropped. She stood, instinctively shielding Akari, who had hidden behind her.
"Please… they're just children. I would never"
"Shut up." Puruburō glared at her. "My daughters don't need you. You'll poison them with your soft, pitiful stories. Just like you poisoned Shinsuke's future."
He yanked both girls away. Akari cried out, reaching for Veena. "I want to stay with Obaa-chan…
"Enough!" he snapped.
And then they were gone, leaving only the sound of the wind against the sliding doors.
The faint hum of the train at midnight echoed in the valley, and the Nakamura household stirred. Footsteps approached the front gate, slow but confident.
Shinsuke was home.
Veena heard the latch click. She sat up quickly, wiping the tears from her face. She had been crying silently, her back to the wall, hands wrapped around her unborn child like a shield.
She moved quickly to the entryway, heart fluttering, as Shinsuke stepped inside and removed his shoes.
"Okaeri, Shinsuke-san," she said softly, bowing.
He looked tired, his coat damp from the snow, a small box in his hand. "Tadaima."
They exchanged glances. For a moment, she hoped—hoped that tonight he might look into her eyes and see everything she hadn't been able to say in letters or in her rare phone calls.
Later, after dinner—where Kamiko, Sawako, and Puruburō sat like stiff walls around them—Veena waited until they were alone in the small back room.
She knelt beside him as he poured himself tea.
"Shinsuke-san… I want to ask you something…"
"Hm?"
"Can you… stay home for a while? Just for a week… or even a few days?" she said gently, her eyes avoiding his. "I just… I just need someone here who understands me."
He sighed, not angrily, but as if tired of hearing a child repeat the same story.
"Veena, you already have my entire family here," he replied, shaking his head. "Kamiko, Puruburō, and Okaa-san—they're all good people. You don't need me to be home all the time. They take care of you, I'm sure."
Veena looked at her hands. Her voice cracked, "Sometimes they… they say things. They treat me—"
Shinsuke raised a hand. "No, Veena. The problem is not with them. You just don't try hard enough to fit in. Everyone in this village respects my family. If you feel left out, maybe you should reflect on yourself."
That cut deeper than any of Kamiko's insults.
Even the neighbors, the old women who came to Veena quietly for stitching work, often whispered:
"They treat you so coldly, poor girl. Doesn't your husband see it?"
She wanted to scream. To cry. To tell him about the names they called her. About how Akari wasn't allowed to touch her hands. About Sawako rolling her eyes every time she entered the room. About stitching until midnight while Kamiko slept like a queen.
But instead…
"I'm sorry, Shinsuke-san," she said, bowing again.
He looked surprised, but gently handed her the small box he'd brought. "It's our first anniversary," he said. "I bought this for you in Tokyo."
Veena opened it slowly. Inside was a silver hairpin with a delicate sakura pattern.
It was beautiful. Fragile. Like the hope she'd carried this whole year.
"Thank you," she whispered.
That night, while he slept soundly beside her, Veena sat near the window again. The candle had melted halfway. Her fingers rested on the silver hairpin in her hair.
Outside, the wind howled through the bare trees.
Inside her, life moved. A small flutter. The child had kicked.
She smiled weakly. "So you're listening already, aren't you?"
She closed her eyes and whispered,
"Don't worry, little one. I'll keep going… until you're strong enough to walk this world on your own"
And so began the quiet end to her first year of marriag
not in love, not in celebration,
but with a gift in her hair and sorrow in her silence.
But soon, the world would hear the cry of a boy who was never meant to blend in.
A boy who would rise, not with blessings…
…but with nothing.