Ayaka folded her arms.
"And what if customers ask whether we've been sold?"
"Tell them the truth. We haven't."
Sachiko nodded.
Kenta looked toward the table.
Then asked quietly, "What if I get scared?"
Amara smiled gently.
"Then tell somebody."
He looked up.
She continued.
"You don't have to face powerful people alone."
For a moment, the young waiter looked close to tears.
Then he nodded.
"Thank you."
Amara looked around the room.
These were the people Masaru had dismissed as replaceable.
Kenta, who arrived early to practice proper service.
Maiko, who remembered dozens of guests' allergies and preferences.
Ayaka, who spent hours balancing flavors that customers sometimes consumed in a few minutes.
The cleaners who cared for every wooden surface.
The apprentices who washed dishes and learned to sharpen knives.
The suppliers who brought fresh ingredients before dawn.
They weren't background details.
They were the restaurant.
Amara took a breath.
"One more thing."
Everyone looked toward her.
"Hiroshi trusted us to preserve Kiyomizu Hana because he believed we understood what mattered here."
She glanced toward Sachiko.
"I intend to keep that trust."
Ayaka lowered her head.
Then smiled.
"So do we."
The meeting ended quietly.
Employees began collecting their belongings.
But Sachiko remained seated.
Amara noticed.
"Something wrong?"
The elderly woman looked toward the garden.
Then asked, "Do you think Kuroda knows about the passage?"
Amara felt her stomach tighten.
"The rear access?"
Sachiko nodded.
"Hiroshi always worried that somebody would eventually want to take it."
Amara sat beside her.
The passage was narrow.
Almost invisible from the street.
It ran along the restaurant's rear boundary and connected an old service entrance with a small shared courtyard.
For generations, it had allowed deliveries and maintenance access while preserving the privacy of the dining rooms.
Its exact rights were governed by property agreements and long-established arrangements among neighboring owners.
The passage wasn't particularly impressive.
But on the property map, it mattered.
Amara had seen how the proposed Kuroda hotel development might benefit from consolidating access through that area.
She looked toward Sachiko.
"We're having the agreements reviewed."
The elderly woman nodded.
Then sighed.
"Hiroshi said the greatest danger to an old place isn't always decay."
Amara turned.
"What did he mean?"
Sachiko smiled sadly.
"Sometimes it's someone who admires the building but cannot understand why it deserves to remain."
Amara looked toward the shoji screens.
Then toward the garden.
She thought of Masaru calling the room a potential hotel suite.
The kitchen an asset.
The staff an efficiency problem.
And the restaurant's history a decorative feature that could be licensed and sold.
She reached for Sachiko's hand.
"We're not going to let him decide what this place becomes."