The girl did not speak.

  She stood where she had been left, thin arms hanging at her sides, eyes empty in a way Kanae recognized far too quickly. There was no fear in them. No anger. No hope.

  Just silence.

  The man beside her counted coins into a waiting hand, his grip firm on the rope tied loosely around the child’s wrist. The exchange was quick. Practiced. Ordinary.

  Kanae’s breath caught.

  Not because of the act — she had seen cruelty before — but because something about the girl’s stillness felt wrong.

  She didn’t resist.

  She didn’t plead.

  She didn’t even look at the man selling her.

  “Kanae,” Shinobu said quietly, standing just behind her. “Let’s go.”

  Kanae didn’t move.

  The girl lifted her eyes.

  For the briefest moment, their gazes met.

  And Kanae felt the ground shift beneath her feet.

  That night, her mind whispered.

  That silence.

  The forest.

  The blood.

  The space where Tsukiko should have been.

  The man laughed lightly as he pocketed the money. “She’s obedient,” he said. “Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t cry. Worth every coin.”

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  Kanae stepped forward before she realized she had decided anything.

  “Wait,” she said.

  The man turned, surprised. “You interested?”

  Shinobu stiffened. “Sister—”

  Kanae didn’t hear her.

  She crouched slowly in front of the girl, lowering herself until they were eye level. The child’s gaze never wavered.

  “What is your name?” Kanae asked gently.

  Silence.

  Kanae swallowed.

  “That’s alright,” she said softly. “You don’t have to answer.”

  The girl blinked once.

  Kanae reached out, stopping just short of touching her hand. “Are you hurt?”

  Another pause.

  A small shake of the head.

  Kanae’s chest tightened.

  She’s learned that words don’t help, she realized.

  Just like Tsukiko did.

  She stood and turned to the man.

  “I’ll take her,” Kanae said.

  The man scoffed. “She’s not cheap.”

  Kanae reached into her sleeve, withdrawing the remaining coins she carried — then, without hesitation, removed the hairpin she wore. A simple thing, carved delicately, worn smooth by time.

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “…That’ll do,” he muttered, cutting the rope and thrusting it into Kanae’s hand.

  The girl didn’t react as she was released.

  She didn’t run.

  She simply stood there, waiting.

  Shinobu grabbed Kanae’s arm once they were out of sight. “Why did you do that?”

  Kanae didn’t answer immediately.

  They walked in silence for several steps before she finally said, “Because if we don’t…”

  Her voice faltered.

  Shinobu looked away.

  “…then we’ll be watching another grave we can’t fill,” Kanae finished quietly.

  The girl followed them without being told.

  At the Butterfly Mansion, she sat where she was placed. Ate when food was set in front of her. Slept when instructed.

  She never spoke.

  Shinobu observed her from the doorway that night, arms crossed tightly. “She’s not Tsukiko,” she said flatly.

  “I know,” Kanae replied.

  “Then why does it feel like you’re trying to bring her back?”

  Kanae closed her eyes.

  “Because I failed once,” she said. “And I won’t fail again.”

  Shinobu said nothing.

  Later, when the house was quiet and lanterns dimmed, Kanae knelt beside the girl’s futon.

  “If you don’t want to speak,” she said gently, “that’s okay. You’re safe here.”

  The girl’s fingers twitched.

  For the first time, she turned her head slightly.

  “…Kanao,” she whispered.

  Kanae smiled — soft, sad, resolute.

  “Kanao,” she repeated. “Welcome home.”

  Outside, butterflies rested among blooming wisteria.

  And in a world shaped by loss, three sisters continued forward —

  One in the grave.

  One holding onto kindness.

  One learning how to endure.