The shrine had always creaked in the same places.
Yuzume could walk it blindfolded, and still her feet would avoid the warped board outside the storage room, the shallow dip in the stone step leading to the offering box, the soft click in the paper door that only opened on humid mornings.
She hummed a familiar tune as she swept the main hall, a slow, old melody that had no beginning and no end. Her master used to sing it while preparing incense. She never knew the words.
Dust clung to the rafters like old memories. The shrine was quieter these days. Even the spirits, those who lingered just a little longer, seemed softer somehow: like they too were remembering.
She moved toward the old cabinet tucked behind the altar, one she hadn't opened since the last full moon. The key was still tied around her wrist with red string. She undid it slowly, reverently, and slid the wooden door aside.
Inside: scrolls, charms, incense paper… and a small, worn journal, its cover faded from years of use.
Her hand hovered over it.
She shouldn't.
But she did.
It opened easily, its pages soft with age. Most were filled with tidy writing, notes about offerings, prayers, the veil's thickness during different moon phases. Diagrams of sigils. Spirit names, recorded with care.
Then, in the middle, a simple page. No symbols. No instructions. Just a few lines, written in her master's neat script:
She shines brightest under moonlight.
Her tail moves when she's nervous.
She hums when she's thinking. Loudly.
I must remember what that means.
Yuzume blinked.
The next page was blank.
She closed the journal slowly and pressed it to her chest.
He had been watching. All that time. Writing it down like she was… something important. Something he didn't want to forget.
She hadn't known.
Outside, the wind picked up, soft and steady. The lavender didn't stir. But the bell hanging from the eaves rang once. Clear. Distant.
Her ears twitched.
She rose, returned the journal, and shut the cabinet. But her tail was still.
Later that night, she lit incense at the small altar in her room. She lined the stones. Folded the cloth. Whispered the invocation.
But when it came time for the final chant, the last word her master always spoke — her lips stopped.
The room waited.
So did she.
Then she bowed her head, let the silence speak for her, and blew out the flame.
Behind her, the bell rang again.
Once.
And no wind followed.