Morning did not announce itself.
It simply arrived—quietly—like someone who had been here many times before and no longer felt the need to knock. Pale light slipped through the cedar leaves and rested on the shrine floor, stretching lazily across wood polished smooth by centuries of care.
Shinren woke to the unfamiliar comfort of warmth.
For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming.
The scent of incense lingered faintly in the air—not heavy, not sharp—just enough to remind him that this place was real. The ceiling above him was wooden, darkened with age, the beams carved with patterns worn soft by time.
He sat up too fast.
The world tilted.
"Ow—!"
"You'll crack your head open if you keep fighting gravity," a voice said calmly.
He froze.
The fox maiden sat near the low table, pouring tea with unhurried precision. Sunlight brushed her sleeves, catching the pale edges of her tails as they swayed behind her, slow and unguarded.
"You're awake," she added.
"I—uh—yes. I think." He rubbed his temple. "Did I… pass out?"
"You fainted."
"…I fainted."
"Yes."
"In a shrine."
"Yes."
"In front of a fox spirit."
She met his eyes over the rim of her cup.
"Yes."
He exhaled and lay back down for a second. "I'm going to pretend this is normal."
She smiled faintly. "Most mortals do."
She handed him a cup. The tea was warm—not scalding this time—and tasted simple, grounding. He drank slowly, letting the quiet settle around him.
They didn't speak for a while.
Outside, birds tested the morning air. Somewhere in the distance, wind stirred the chimes just once, then stopped, as if satisfied.
"You can leave when you feel ready," she said at last.
"Oh. Right." He nodded. "Of course."
He didn't move.
Neither did she.
Instead, she refilled his cup.
The shrine did not object.
They spent the morning doing very little.
She swept the courtyard, though no leaves had fallen. Shinren followed behind, trying to help and mostly succeeding in staying out of the way. When he offered to carry water, she watched him struggle with the bucket for longer than necessary before finally taking it back with a soft sigh.
"You don't have to prove anything," she said.
"I know," he replied, breathless. "But I like trying."
That earned him a glance—brief, unreadable.
She showed him the stone fox statues, each one slightly different, each worn smooth in places where hands had lingered. She told him which prayers were most common, and which wishes people never said out loud.
"And did they come true?" he asked.
"Sometimes," she said. "Sometimes they just learned how to live with them."
He nodded, accepting that answer without pressing.
They sat on the shrine steps later, sharing simple food. He talked about small things—where he grew up, how he learned the flute, how he never stayed anywhere long enough to be missed.
She listened.
Sometimes she answered.
Sometimes she didn't.
When she laughed, it was quiet and surprised, like the sound had slipped out before she could stop it. When she smiled, it lingered a heartbeat longer than she seemed to expect.
At one point, his sleeve brushed one of her tails.
Both of them froze.
She cleared her throat. "Careful."
"Sorry," he said quickly. Then, softer, "They're… warm."
Her ears flicked.
"Yes," she replied. "They are."
By afternoon, the light had shifted, shadows stretching lazily across the courtyard. Shinren stood near the torii gate, hands in his pockets.
"I should probably go," he said.
"Yes," she agreed.
Neither moved.
The mist had begun to gather again, thin and patient, curling around the stones as if waiting for instructions.
"I'll come back," he said, not asking.
She studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded once.
"The shrine will remember you," she said.
He smiled—not wide, not loud—just enough. "I'd like that."
As he walked away, she watched until the mist closed behind him.
The shrine grew quiet again.
She stood alone beneath the lanterns, tea long since cooled in her hands.
Strange, she thought.
How quickly silence learned his shape.
Above, the sky remained clear.
The moon had not yet risen.
But something—small, unnoticed, irreversible—had already settled into place.