Valentina stepped out of the elevator and the air in the lobby hit her differently, as if charged with electricity. Guests pretended not to look, but their eyes peered out from behind glasses and cell phones. The employees were frozen in their seats, with that "I don't exist" look you get when power screams.

Valentina received an official letter, sealed with the Takahashi Industries logo: an invitation to participate in a fully funded cultural program in Japan, in exchange for her work as a language consultant for tourism projects.

That night, Valentina lit a candle in front of an old photo of her grandmother Harumi.

“Obaasan,” he whispered in Japanese. “I did it.”

And for the first time in a long time, the luxury of the hall stopped seeming like that of a foreign palace.

Because that time… he wasn't cleaning the floor.

He was claiming his place.