And from that day on, no one cared which side of the bath you came from—only that you helped turn the valve.

“You didn’t have to go through there,” Hana said quietly. “You could have waited for the repair crew.”

The elderly farmer cackled. “Boy, I’ve birthed four children. You’re not even a footnote.”

In the blue-tiled quiet of the , just before the weekday rush, the etiquette was clear: men on the left, women on the right. A sliding wooden partition, worn smooth by decades of steam, was the only law.

“Modesty,” Taro said, as if citing scripture, “is the foundation of civilization.”