The incense burned slower than usual.
The smoke curled thick through the still air, hanging like a question that didn't want an answer. It clung to her sleeves, her hair, her breath. Even when she tried to wave it away, it hovered, stubborn and soft.
The charm on the altar kept fluttering, tugging lightly at its string as though it disagreed with her placement.
"I tied you right," she muttered, narrowing her eyes.
The charm, of course, did not respond.
She stepped back, arms folded, tail swishing low behind her as she let out a sigh. Her sixth, maybe seventh that morning. And yet the silence didn't change.
She turned toward the porch to ask, only to pause.
The cushion where he always sat was empty.
Her ears twitched.
The tea she had brewed still waited on the tray, untouched. The cups were exactly where she had placed them. The steam had already faded, leaving only a soft, cooling scent of barley and something that felt like absence.
He was never late.
She checked the garden first. Then the incense shed. Then the river steps.
No footsteps. No voice. No steady staff tapping behind her like usual. Her heart beat faster than she wanted to admit.
She finally found him behind the main hall.
Kneeling. Still. His staff was lying beside him, instead of in his hand. His back curved just slightly, not like he was resting, but like he was... sinking.
The stones in front of him were familiar. Old prayer markers. Spirits who had passed quietly, peacefully. Some had names she remembered tracing with her fingers when she was small.
He didn't look up.
"Hey," she said, soft as she could.
No reply.
She stepped closer. He didn't move. Not even to acknowledge her.
Was he asleep? He did that sometimes. But then she saw it: the faint tremble of his hand resting against his knee.
Her voice thinned into a whisper.
"You missed tea."
"I know."
She waited for the rest.
None came.
She sat beside him quietly, folding her robe under her legs the way he had taught her. Her gaze followed his. One of the stones had faded. The ink on it barely legible, as though time had begun to take the name back.
"You always know when I do something wrong," she said, trying for lightness. "But you didn't know when the tea was ready?"
Still nothing. Not even a smile.
She looked at him closer.
His face hadn't changed much overnight. But today... the tired in his eyes was different. Not the kind that sleep could fix. Just deeper.
He exhaled, slow and thin.
"I forgot."
She blinked.
That wasn't like him. Not even a little.
"You never forget."
"I know."
She swallowed. Something in her throat tightened.
The silence pressed between them like a third presence.
She reached for his hand. Not with ceremony. Just... gently. She placed hers over his, her smaller fingers curling softly against his palm.
"You should've come," she said.
"I should have," he replied.
Her eyes dropped to the faded stone again.
"Do you think the spirits remember us... after they go?"
He was quiet for a long time. Then:
"I think they remember what mattered."
She sat with that. Let it settle.
Her grip around his hand tightened slightly.
"Then I'll remember for them."
This time, he did look at her.
And when he smiled, it was small, a little fragile, but warm. True.
"You always do," he whispered.