Page 2 of Kotori
So when the international teaching agency had called with an immediate placement for a live-in position in Japan, complete with airfare and a generous signing bonus wired to my account within hours of accepting, I hadn't bothered to ask too many questions. The recruiter had mentioned a "traditional family" seeking an English teacher for their three daughters. She'd emphasized their desire for privacy and mentioned the remote location only in passing. But the salary was triple what I'd make in Chicago, with room and board included.
"It's a rare opportunity," she'd said. "We don't often place teachers with families of this... caliber."
I'd asked about the previous teacher, of course. Standard due diligence.
"She had a family emergency," the recruiter had said, her voice carefully neutral. "Had to return to Australia unexpectedly. The position is yours if you want it."
With my bank account hovering near zero and nowhere else to go, I'd signed the contract electronically within the hour. Three days later, I was on a plane to Japan, the signing bonus already spent on paying off one of my maxed-out credit cards and buying clothes appropriate for my new role.
Now, watching ancient stone walls emerge from the morning mist like something from a samurai movie, I'm wondering if I should have.
The compound appears gradually through the fog—first the towering outer walls, then massive wooden gates that look like they've been standing since before America was even a concept. Everything is gray stone and dark wood, traditional architecture that speaks of power accumulated over centuries. This isn't new money trying to impress anyone. This is old power that doesn't need to.
My ribs compress, lungs emptying. Not fear. Anticipation. This is it. New life, new country, new everything. David and Sarah can have Chicago. I'm about to become part of something bigger than their petty betrayal.
The taxi slows as we approach the gates. Two men in dark suits emerge from a guardhouse I hadn't noticed, hidden among carefully maintained trees. They don't look like typical security. They look like the kind of men who solve problems without asking questions.
One approaches the driver's window, speaking rapid Japanese. I understand maybe one word in ten despite taking Japanese in college—something about paperwork and permission. The driver hands over some kind of document, and the guard's eyes find mine through the back window.
He's younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with a scar running from his left ear to his jaw. When he looks at me, it's not the polite assessment of household staff. It's the evaluation of livestock.
My skin crawls. The sudden knowledge that I'm being cataloged, assessed, filed away in some mental archive. The way his eyes linger on my blonde hair, my blue eyes, the obvious foreignness of everything about me.
The guard says something to his partner, who nods and disappears back into the guardhouse. I hear the mechanical hum of machinery, and the massive wooden gates begin to swing inward with surprising silence. Modern engineering hidden behind ancient facades.
"Miss." The driver's voice is strained. "You want to change your mind? I can wait, drive you back to the city?"
I look at him in the mirror. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool mountain air. His hands shake slightly on the wheel.
"Why would I change my mind?"
He glances toward the guards, then back at me. "This family... very traditional. Very private. People who come here..." He trails off, shaking his head.
"What about people who come here?"
"Nothing. Nothing, Miss. I say nothing."
But his silence says everything. Whatever warning he's not giving me, it's too late anyway. The gates are open, and the guards gesture us forward with the impatience of men who aren't used to being kept waiting.
We roll through the entrance, and I hear the gates close behind us with a solid thunk that reverberates through my chest. The sound of steel locks engaging. The sound of a trap snapping shut.
I glance back through the rear window, watching as the gap between the gates narrows, then disappears entirely. For a briefmoment, I consider changing my mind, asking the driver to wait after all. But what would I be going back to? An empty bank account? A mountain of debt? The pity of colleagues who'd all known about David and Sarah long before I did?
No. Forward is the only direction I can afford to go.
The driveway curves upward through perfectly manicured gardens, past stone lanterns and carefully pruned trees that probably cost more than my annual salary. Everything precise and disciplined, not a leaf out of place. Beauty preserved through centuries of attention.
Cherry trees line the path, their branches heavy with blossoms that stir in the breeze, scattering petals across our path like nature's confetti. Beauty given and taken away in the same moment. I've read that the Japanese celebrate cherry blossoms precisely because they're so temporary—a reminder that all beautiful things must end.
As we climb higher, the main house comes into view, and my breath stops in my throat.
Traditional Japanese architecture cascading down the hillside in a series of connected buildings and courtyards, all dark wood and sweeping rooflines that seem to grow from the mountain itself. Some of these buildings have to be centuries old—actual history I can touch, not the reproduction American "old" I'm used to.
This isn't just wealth. This is legacy. Power that's been accumulating for longer than my entire country has existed.
The taxi stops in a circular courtyard in front of the main entrance. Stone steps lead up to massive wooden doors that could withstand a siege. Everything about this place whispers permanence, tradition, the kind of deep roots that strangle out anything that doesn't belong.
More guards materialize from positions I hadn't noticed—behind pillars, in shadow alcoves, places I'm not even seeing.How many men does one family need? What are they protecting? Or who are they keeping in?
