The morning rain had come quietly, long before the sun rose. It whispered through the trees, kissed the shrine's rooftops, and draped the hill in a soft, silver mist. The scent of wet stone and blooming lavender filled the air. It was peaceful, but heavy.
Riku wandered, barefoot and quiet.
Yuzume had vanished into her usual garden routines, likely whispering to the plants and getting distracted by ghosts. That left him with a lot of silence, too much, maybe.
He turned a corner near the eastern wing and found a narrow hallway he didn't recognize. The floor creaked differently here. The air was still in a way that made him lower his voice without meaning to.
At the end was a tall wooden cabinet. Old, slightly crooked, its door barely hanging on.
He opened it.
Inside: neatly folded robes, bundles of dried herbs, and at the very bottom, a weathered leather-bound journal tied with a pale green ribbon. Something about it felt personal. Important.
He sat down cross-legged on the floor and opened it.
The first pages were structured: clear notes on moon cycles, offerings made, spirits helped, charms tested.
Then came a shift. A change in tone. And in heart.
She put all the charms on her head again today. Claimed it was to amuse the moon gods. I think she just wanted attention. Seven stacked before they all tumbled.
Burned the rice again. Spirits didn't complain. Either they're polite or they miss having tastebuds.
Hummed a lullaby last night. Claimed it helps her sleep. I didn't tell her I stayed awake just to listen.
Riku smiled to himself. He could see her clearly, just like that.
More pages turned. More scribbles, more stories.
Then a name.
Kaede,
I don't know if you'll ever read this. But writing feels like breathing again.
I never blamed you for leaving. You wanted more than this hill, and I never could give it to you.
But after you left… the quiet became unbearable.
Then she came.
Spring. Full moon. Mist thicker than usual. Found her by the river's edge. Silent. Staring. As if she'd been waiting for me.
No name. No words. Just lavender eyes full of sky.
I named her Yuzume. It felt right. I never told her that.
She became the sound of the shrine again. My echo. My rhythm. Not as a daughter. Not as an apprentice. Just… Yuzume.
I hope if your son ever comes here, he finds something. Anything. This place still holds pieces of all of us.
Riku stopped breathing for a moment.
His fingers rested lightly on the soft, worn paper. His eyes hovered on the ink. Every line curled with care.
He flipped ahead, slower this time.
Your boy… I wish I knew him. If he ever steps foot here, tell him the shrine is his too. It always was.
And if he meets her… I hope he sees what I saw. The way her smile reaches the trees. The way she hums off-key. The way she keeps the shrine alive just by being in it.
I hope he stays.
Riku let the journal close softly in his lap.
His mother's voice returned to him like a whisper.
Go find him, she had said. Say I'm sorry.
She never said who.
He hadn't understood.
Now he did.
When he stepped outside, the rain had lightened to a quiet drizzle. The sky was pale and the trees trembled with drops. He found Yuzume brushing petals off the veranda, her hair damp, her ears flicking in time with the wind.
"You alright?" she asked.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just… needed a moment."
She tilted her head, a little suspicious. "You weren't snooping through the incense room, were you?"
"Define snooping."
She narrowed her eyes at him, but he smiled, and she softened.
Something had shifted.
Not loudly. Not with fanfare. But like a thread had been tugged free from a very old knot, and now it was gently unraveling, leading him somewhere he didn't yet understand…
But somehow felt like home.