Sara Shiraishi had always felt like a guest in her own home, tolerated but never truly wanted. The sprawling Shiraishi estate, with its immaculate gardens and cold, marble halls, stood as a monument to her father Kamui’s ruthless ambition and pride. 

On the morning of her 20th birthday, the Shiraishi estate stood as it always had—grand and imposing, with its sprawling gardens meticulously manicured to perfection. The shoji doors creaked slightly under the weight of the morning breeze, and the scent of blooming sakura trees wafted through the corridors.

Sara stood at her bedroom window, staring out at the koi pond, her reflection flickering against the rippling water below. 
The estate was silent, but not in peace. It was a silence of separation, one Sara had grown accustomed to over the years. Her stepmother Nanako had ensured the house never felt like a home. Kamui, her father, felt more like a landlord than a parent. She felt like she was living under rent.

Nanako’s polished smile hid sharp barbs, always reminding Sara of her place. “You’re just like your mother,” Nanako would say, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “So fragile. I only hope you’re strong enough to handle what your father built.”

Behind those words was a clear message: You don’t belong here.
Sara endured it for years, gritting her teeth and focusing on her studies. She poured her energy into designing, dreaming of a future far from the suffocating estate. But the final straw came on her twentieth birthday.

That evening, a lavish dinner was held in her honor, attended by business associates and distant relatives. Sara sat at the head of the table, wearing a silk kimono Nanako had chosen for her. The night Sara Shiraishi turned twenty was supposed to be like any other birthday party—opulent dinners served in porcelain bowls, subdued but palpable tension threading through conversations, and the gilded cage of the Shiraishi estate trapping her every move. 

Sara had always been the heiress, but it was clear to her that her position was ornamental at best. Her father and Nanako’s lack of concern when she struggled made that clear. The thought lingered bitterly as she glanced at her suitcase lying open on the tatami mat.

She packed light—a few changes of clothes, a sketchbook, and a photo of her mother, Suzume. Suzume’s image was Sara’s constant anchor: a woman who had survived Kamui’s indifference and ruthlessness, and  was cajoled to move away to a modest apartment in a quiet neighborhood. Suzume now lived in what was essentially a glorified rehab center, funded by Kamui under the guise of generosity but without the dignity of proper divorce alimony.

Sara clenched her fists as she stuffed the photo into her bag. Respect. It was a word she had clung to all her life. It was something the Shiraishi estate had never truly given her mother, and something Sara refused to let them strip from her.
That night, as the clock struck midnight, she placed a letter addressed to her father, Kamui Shiraishi, under the glassware set on the dining table. 

Her geta clacked softly against the stone pathway as she slipped through the estate’s back garden, weaving between lantern-lit stone statues. The bamboo gates creaked faintly as she stepped into the quiet streets of Tokyo. It was the first time she felt the weight of freedom—along with its crushing uncertainty.

Sara’s first year away from the estate was a brutal awakening. She found temporary refuge with her childhood friend Yuki, who lived in a three-room apartment. She was a rising advocate whom she reconnected with, during her college years. When Yuki saw her dearest, mighty heiress drenched with the dense morning fog and a tear streaked face, she couldn’t help but welcome her immediately. Yuki knew why Sara chose to leave the house.

“You can stay as long as you need,” Yuki said, handing her a futon.

Sara nodded, grateful but painfully aware that she couldn’t impose for long. She spent her days scouring job boards and applying for any position she could find. 

Finding a job was harder than she imagined. Though she had studied design at a prestigious academy, her lack of real-world experience made her an underdog in every interview. She remembered standing outside a design firm one rainy afternoon, gripping her umbrella tightly as rejection after rejection played in her mind.

“We’re sorry, Miss Shiraishi, but we’re looking for someone with more hands-on experience.”

She bit her lip to keep from snapping back. How could she have experience when her entire life had been spent behind the Shiraishi estate’s gates?

Her surname, Shiraishi, carried weight in business circles, but without Kamui’s backing, it was little more than a reminder of the family she had left behind. She stopped using it altogether, introducing herself simply as Sara. 

Yuki tried to comfort her. “It’s just the beginning, Sara. You’ll figure it out.”
But every rejection felt like another nail in the coffin of her pride.

When rent came due, Sara took on part-time jobs to make ends meet—working as a konbini cashier, waiting tables at an izakaya, and even folding flyers in the early hours of the morning. She wanted to repay Yuki for her generosity. She couldn't bear to live as a free-loader.

The nights were the hardest. The city lights outside their apartment window mocked her as she sat on the floor, looking out at the unreachable night sky. 

“You’ve got talent,” Yuki said, sliding her coffee across the table. “Why not try freelancing? That would help you build a portfolio and then maybe you can get your hands on a real, stable job.”
Sara hesitated. “Freelancing? I barely have connections, let alone a reputation.”

“Everyone starts somewhere,” Yuki continued, adjusting her thick-rimmed glasses. “And Osaka’s media is full of clients who don’t care about your name—only the quality of your work.”
With her encouragement, Sara began freelancing. Her first few clients were small businesses—creating logos for ramen shops and brochures for tea houses. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a start. Her reputation grew slowly but steadily, and she began working with more prominent clients.

Sometimes, the loneliness crept in like a fog, especially during festivals. She often watched families gather around shrines during the Obon Festival, their laughter echoing as they lit paper lanterns to guide their ancestors’ spirits home. Home, she mused.

Where in the world did she belong?

By the time Sara turned twenty-three, her career had gained momentum. Her designs were featured in Valerie, a prestigious design magazine of an equally renowned Designing company, earning her respect in the industry. She rented a slightly larger apartment with tatami floors and sliding shoji doors, reminiscent of her childhood.

Kamui, refused to acknowledge Sara’s disappearance publicly. When business associates inquired about her, he simply stated that she was “pursuing her own interests.”
But the truth weighed heavily on him. On rare nights, he stood by the koi pond, staring at the reflection of the moon. His thoughts drifted to Sara—her fiery determination, her refusal to be molded into his ideal heir. He would never admit it, but he missed her.

Sara’s life had finally settled into a fragile peace. She spent her mornings sipping matcha by the window, her sketchbook open to new designs. Her friends dragged her to karaoke nights and izakaya outings, where laughter and sake blurred the edges of her past pain. Boyfriends turned exes, dates, bonding over sketches — her life took a huge turn, from a heiress taking on a generational business to a self-made rising designer.

But the shadows of the Shiraishi estate lingered. Every now and then, she heard whispers—Nanako’s schemes, Kamui’s stoic facade cracking, Izumi and Mahira’s struggles to fill her shoes. She hallucinated their faces, the courtroom scene, the new year's parties…again and again, till she convinced herself that they were nothing but a mid-summer dream in the past.

One evening, as Sara walked through the bustling streets of Tokyo, she paused at a shrine. She lit a small candle and placed it before the altar, bowing her head in prayer.

Let me find the strength to keep moving forward.

Her journey wasn’t over, but for the first time in years, she felt like she was no longer running.