My name is Tadashi Lily. I'm 15 years old and in my third and final year at Azayakana Middle School, a prestigious institution for exceptional young women.
Every morning begins the same way: I wake up in a bed so grand it seems to dwarf me, its size a testament to the opulence I've known my entire life. After refreshing myself, five dedicated servants meticulously dress me, ensuring every detail of my appearance is flawless for the day ahead.
Our home, nestled in an elite residential district where grandeur is the standard, stands out even among its majestic neighbors. It is a stately Western-style mansion, surrounded by a meticulously landscaped garden that exudes a timeless elegance. Its historic charm is fitting, as this house serves as the residence of the Tadashi family—a lineage with centuries of influence and respect.
Here, luxury and legacy intertwine, shaping not only my surroundings but the very path I am expected to walk.
Breakfast is always the same. I sit at a grand banquet table, its length stretching far enough to accommodate twelve guests. Yet, in my fifteen years living in this house, I've never seen those seats filled. They remain empty, a silent reminder of a family that exists more in name than in presence.
The servants bring my meal, placing it before me with the precision of a well-rehearsed routine. Accompanying them is Milton, the ever-dutiful head butler of the house. The breakfast, crafted by a world-class chef who once graced the kitchens of five-star restaurants, is an artful display of culinary mastery. But to me, it's nothing more than fuel. Sweetness, bitterness—flavors—none of them reach me. It's as if my taste buds withered away long ago, leaving behind only the necessity of nourishment.
As I finish, Milton, standing at his usual post, speaks.
"Did you enjoy your breakfast, ma'am?"
I respond with my practiced smile, a mask I've worn so long it feels like second nature.
"Yes, amazing and delicious as always,"
I reply, the lie rolling off my tongue effortlessly.
Then, maintaining that same facade, I ask the question I know the answer to.
"Any word on when my father will return?"
Milton's face doesn't change. His tone is measured, polite, and predictable.
"Unfortunately, no, ma'am."
"I see. He must be quite busy, then," I say, my smile never faltering.
I don't recall the last time we sat at this table together, my father and I. Perhaps it was back when my mother was still alive, when this house still had echoes of warmth. But that feels like a lifetime ago.
Am I sad that he's not here? No. Sadness would imply an expectation of something different, and I've long since abandoned that. This is simply my reality—empty seats, silent meals, and the unchanging rhythm of an isolated life.
As I walked down the long, quiet hallway, the walls were lined with portraits of my prestigious family, each frame capturing a moment of grandeur. But one picture, larger than all the rest, caught my eye.
It was a photograph of my father, my late mother, and me, taken when I was five years old—just a week before the accident that would forever change everything. I had seen this picture more times than I could count, yet each time, it evoked nothing. No sadness. No longing. No guilt. Just... nothing.
I stood before it, staring at the image, my thoughts drifting to my mother.
She had been an extraordinarily beautiful woman, the kind of beauty that commanded attention without even trying. I had heard that my father met her in England, in the United Kingdom. To everyone who knew them, it seemed like an impossible match—my father, ordinary with his dark hair and brown eyes, and my mother, stunning, with her long blonde hair and mesmerizing red eyes. She had been, in every way, out of his league.
Her name was Evelyn—Tadashi Evelyn. I could hardly imagine her any other way, so full of grace, yet so distant in my memories now.
I remember once asking her why she had named me Lily. She had smiled softly, her eyes sparkling with affection, and explained, "I once read in a book that in the Victorian language of flowers, Lilies symbolize love, ardor, and affection for those you hold dear. That's why you're Lily, My Lily."
Her words echoed in my mind, but now, the meaning behind them felt as distant as she was. My name, a symbol of love, yet I couldn't help but wonder if anyone had ever truly loved me the way she had meant.
When I was in elementary school, the girls in my class began to wonder aloud about my name. "Why Lily?" they asked, their voices a mix of curiosity and mischief. It wasn't long before one of them came up with a theory, and the others quickly latched onto it.
"It's because of her eyes," they whispered, casting sidelong glances my way. "They're the color of Higanbana—The Red Spider Lily. You know, the Flower of Death."
The words struck me, who've lost her mother, like a cold wind, seeping into the fragile corners of my six-year-old heart. At that age, I didn't have the strength to dismiss their chatter or the words to defend myself. Instead, I sat in silence, carrying the weight of their cruel poetry, as if my very name had tied me to something dark and unkind.
*
Lost in the timeless allure of the photographs, I hadn't realized how much time had slipped away. The world outside my reverie faded, and only when the hurried footsteps of the servants reached my ears did I snap back to reality. They had been searching for me, their voices tinged with urgency. I was late—school awaited, and I had completely fallen behind schedule.
After a brief meeting with the servants, my driver arrived with the 2020 BMW M5, its sleek frame gleaming under the morning sun. Settling into the backseat.
As he drove through the streets, I passed a group of girls, probably around my age, from a different school. They were running, their laughter ringing through the air, and for some reason, I couldn't understand why they were so carefree.
They were late for school. Late enough that they were sprinting to make up for lost time. The thought of being punished for such a thing didn't seem to faze them.
What could possibly be so exciting about that? The prospect of punishment, the consequences they'd surely face, didn't seem to bother them at all. I couldn't fathom what they found so amusing. To me, lateness was an inconvenience, a lapse in responsibility—a matter of discipline, not something to laugh about.
I shook my head slightly, the sound of their laughter fading in the distance as I continued on my way.
*
School, as always, was a dull routine. Most of the material the teachers covered was nothing new to me; I already knew the basics. Of course, there were occasional topics I didn't fully grasp, but with a bit of guidance, I could easily overcome them. The teachers here were dedicated and kind, always willing to help, even when I didn't particularly need it. I appreciated their efforts, even if I didn't always show it.
But that sense of support was rarely reflected in my classmates.
There were two distinct groups of girls in my class. One group simply ignored my presence, pretending I didn't exist, while the other group clung to me like a second skin. These girls, it seemed, had only one favorite pastime: gossip. They thrived on spreading trivial rumors about others, particularly about girls they didn't like, and for reasons I could never understand.
What baffled me even more was that these same girls would gossip about me, too—despite claiming to be my friends. As a result, most of the school probably thought I was some kind of tyrant, a persona I neither encouraged nor cared to correct.
Their opinions didn't matter to me. Let them think what they would. I had learned long ago not to waste energy on things that didn't concern me.
When the school bell finally rang, signaling the end of the day, I made my way to the gate, where my driver was already waiting. Without a single glance or farewell, I climbed into the car and settled into the plush seat.
I gazed out the window, letting my thoughts wander. What a boring day, I mused silently, the monotony of it all weighing on me.
We stopped at a red light, the car idling in the stillness of the afternoon. Nothing out of the ordinary—until I saw it.
An American Eskimo dog, small and white, trying to cross the road on its own. My heart skipped a beat. Before I could even process what was happening, a Miata appeared out of nowhere, barreling toward the intersection at full speed, its driver ignoring the red light. Panic seized me, but my voice caught in my throat. It's too late, I thought, frozen in place.
But then, in a flash of unexpected movement, a boy—skinny, in a dirty uniform—suddenly dashed into the street. He wasn't thinking about himself; he was thinking only of the dog. With a swift motion, he scooped the animal into his arms, pulling it out of harm's way. But in doing so, he paid the price. His left arm took the brunt of the impact, his right hand scraped violently against the asphalt, the nails tearing away painfully. His school bag was crushed beneath the vehicle's tires. The world around me seemed to freeze, everyone too focused on the speeding Miata tearing down the road, its tires screeching with each sharp turn as two police cars gave chase, sirens wailing. Amid the chaos, no one noticed the boy's sacrifice.
When the light turned green, the cars began to move again, and the moment passed as quickly as it had come. I sat there, speechless, unable to move or speak. My mind raced with questions: What...? Why...? You're injured...Do you even have enough money to treat those wounds...? How will you study with those injuries ? What if you had died? Was that worth the risk...?
But through it all, the only thing I saw was the boy's smile, despite the pain. The dog, the one he had risked his life for, was licking his face, unaware of the sacrifice made on its behalf.
Looking at him, I couldn't help but think to myself, So idiotic, so illogical, and yet...so cool.
We didn't know each other. Not a single word had been exchanged between us, yet in that brief moment, that boy had made the entire day feel different—Special, even. And for the first time in a long while, I realized that something, or someone, could still surprise me.
*
Now, back to the present.
My name is Tadashi Lily. I'm 17 years old, a second-year high school student, and the top achiever at Suou High School. As usual, I was on my way home, seated comfortably in my 2020 BMW M5. The streets passed by in a blur of routine until I approached a red light.
It was the same intersection. The exact place where I first saw him—Saito Yuta.
As I stared out the window, memories of our brief yet unforgettable encounter resurfaced, unbidden. His face, his smile, his reckless bravery—it all came flooding back.
A small chuckle escaped my lips as I recalled the conversation we had.
"All the time in the world, huh?" I murmured to myself, my voice laced with amusement.
A faint smile played on my lips as I continued, softly but with a certain confidence, "You're definitely going to need that, because we'll meet again soon enough...my prince on a white horse ."
The light turned green, and the car began to move forward, but the thought of him lingered. A part of me, buried beneath years of composure and detachment, stirred with Avid anticipation.