The river never asked where she came from. It just let her sit there, ankles in the water, sleeves rolled up, tail swaying behind her like it had its own opinions about the current.
She liked the river. It never rushed her. It listened without talking back. Sometimes, it even sang.
This morning, it was quiet.
The girl ran her fingers along a flat stone, drawing tiny circles on its surface. The teapot was still warm beside her. She had carried it out all the way from the shrine without spilling, which was probably worth bragging about. Not that there was anyone nearby to hear it.
Except, of course, him.
He sat on the porch, legs crossed, staff resting against the wall beside him. His robe was the deep kind of blue you only saw in the sky right before night fell. His tea was balanced carefully in one hand, and a half-folded charm sat untouched in the other.
He didn't say anything.
That wasn't new.
But lately, he had been saying nothing a little more than usual.
The girl let her hand trail through the water, watched the ripples move outward, then turn in on themselves like they weren't sure they had permission to leave.
"You forgot to refill the incense jar," he said without looking up.
She blinked.
"I did not."
"You did."
She frowned, looked over her shoulder at the shrine. The main hall. The offering table. The tiny jar behind the lantern stand that definitely looked emptier than it should be.
She turned back to the river.
"Maybe a little."
He took a sip of tea.
Silence again. But not sharp. Just... soft. Like the kind that drifts between two people who know the space between them is safe.
She picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water. It plunked once, sank, and disappeared without a trace.
"You're quieter lately," she said.
He didn't answer.
So she kept going.
"You usually say more. Or scold more. Or ask if I double-checked the salt line."
"You didn't."
"I did."
His brow lifted slightly, like he might smile, but didn't.
She looked down at her feet in the water, then back at him.
"You're not sick, are you?"
He set the tea down.
"I'm old."
"You've been old the whole time I've known you."
"I've been older lately."
She didn't like that answer.
She stood and padded across the stones, letting her wet feet leave little prints in the dirt. She sat beside him on the porch, arms tucked around her knees.
"Do you remember when you found me?" she asked.
He nodded.
"I remember."
"I don't. Just the smell of the flowers."
"That was enough."
She tilted her head against his shoulder.
"You gave me a name."
"I did."
"Why that one?"
He looked out at the river. The lanterns along the path weren't lit yet. The sun was still climbing.
"You bloomed where no one was supposed to bloom. And the wind said your name before I could."
She blinked. Then smiled.
"That's not a real answer."
"It's the only one I have."
They sat together in the quiet.
The river didn't ask why.
It just kept moving.