Black ran on paper like life's black and white—framed, picture-perfect.
The second sun now beamed from the top of the sky, its light colder, cleaner, and somehow hungrier than before. The shrine's wooden corridors shimmered faintly beneath it, lacquer and gold leaf drinking the brightness until even the shadows seemed awake.
When we returned, almost everyone was absent.
"They had work to do," Dōngzhì said simply, broom in hand, her sleeves tied neatly at her elbows. She swept the fallen leaves with the calm of one who could sweep the entire world if asked.
I offered to help, naturally.
She looked up, ears twitching, and said without missing a beat, "You'd only make more work for me."
"Oh." I smiled sheepishly. "Then I guess I'll go… write that letter."
"You do that," she murmured, already back to her sweeping.
The air smelled faintly of pine resin and incense ash. Somewhere deeper in the shrine, a wind chime sang softly, answering the silence like a memory.
I retreated to the spare room they'd given me—a simple space of tatami, paper walls, and one window that opened to the hillside. My hands trailed over the writing desk, its surface polished smooth by years of quiet devotion. I sat, staring at the blank paper.
"How do you write a letter again?" I wondered aloud. The question fell into the still air and didn't come back.
It was strange—no phones, no screens, no signal to cling to. Just my thoughts, a pen, and this world that insisted on being beautiful in ways that made homesickness hurt a little less.
I still had some yen. A few silver coins. A single gold one. Not nearly enough. "I might need to get a job," I murmured with a laugh that had more nerves than humor in it. "An economics student without an economy—how poetic."
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams. "And I'm a woman," I added dryly. "That'll open so many doors."
The thought made me chuckle softly to myself. The sound didn't echo—it simply faded, as if the room absorbed it out of pity.
After a time, I went to bathe. The shrine bath was called an ofuro—a deep wooden tub that breathed steam and calm. Dōngzhì had heated the water earlier, though she'd mumbled something sharp under her breath about "people who forget to warm it for others."
When I entered, the scent of hinoki cypress and warm mineral water enveloped me. Dōngzhì had already bathed. Her long hair clung to her shoulders like wet silk, the ends dripping in rhythm with the steam's sighs. Her pale skin glowed faintly pink from the heat, like snow kissed by dawn.
"Dōngzhì—" I began, half to distract myself from watching her move.
She glanced back, one brow raised. "The bath's ready. Try not to fall asleep in it."
"I wasn't—going to ask that," I muttered, flustered. But she was already gone, tails swaying like ink brushstrokes across the hall.
I slid into the water and felt every muscle remember what rest meant.
"I miss showers," I murmured to no one, closing my eyes. "But this… isn't bad."
Later, wrapped in a green kimono streaked with yellow threads like veins of gold, I tied my black-and-bone-white hair into a neat bun and stepped back into the courtyard.
Dōngzhì was there, sitting in a square of sunlight like a painting come to life.
She played a koto, the soft, rippling notes flowing like clear water. Steam curled from a bowl of dumplings beside her, and a cup of tea rested near her hand. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and roasted rice.
The sight was so serene I almost forgot to breathe.
I approached with my papers and ink, each step tentative, unwilling to disturb the spell the morning had woven.
After a while, she turned to me, her deep crimson outfit catching the sunlight like blood spilt across snow. "What can I do for you?" she asked, her voice low and even, a melody to match the koto.
"I—uh…" I blinked, caught completely off guard. "Sorry, I have a favor to ask. And some questions."
She gestured gracefully to the mat across from her. "Then sit, and ask."
I did, folding my legs beneath me, suddenly very aware of how mortal I looked beside her. "First… could you help me write a letter?"
Her ears twitched. She studied me for a beat, then nodded. "Of course."
---
Letter from Victoria to Miss Mary and Miss Vivianna
To my most esteemed Miss Mary, and to dear Miss Vivianna,
I trust this letter finds you both in good health and gentler weather. The days here are quieter than I ever imagined, though they move with a rhythm quite unlike our own.
I am presently residing at a shrine dedicated to the old fox deity of these lands—a place both solemn and alive, as if every breeze carries an unspoken prayer.
The priestesses have received me kindly, though their customs still elude me. I lend what little help I can: sweeping the steps, tending the lanterns, and assisting in their evening devotions. The fox spirits near the gates are said to bring fortune, though I suspect they also delight in mischief. One of them, I swear, hides my shoes.
I am in good health and want for nothing. The food is humble, but the air tastes clean, and the nights are filled with bells and crickets. There is a peace here that feels borrowed rather than owned—a fragile kind that asks one not to move too quickly or speak too loudly, lest it vanish.
Do not concern yourselves for me. I am learning to make myself useful. Though the faith of this land differs from what we once held whilst I remained a guest in your house, there is a strange familiarity in their reverence—as though all prayers, no matter their tongue, ascend to the same listening silence.
Please convey my affection to those you hold dear, and tell them I shall write again once I've found steadier footing. Until then, know that I keep both of you close in thought, and that your kindness is the thread that keeps me bound to gentler days.
With all fondness and gratitude,
Your ever affectionate,
Victoria.
P.S.—Should either of you dream of foxes beneath pale silver moon, do not fear. They are said to be messengers of change. Perhaps they have only come to say that I am safe.
---
I looked over the letter once, then twice, the ink still glistening faintly in the light. It wasn't perfect—but it was mine.
"Thank you," I said softly, turning to Dōngzhì, who was now idly munching on a dumpling with inhuman grace. "For the help."
She only hummed in acknowledgment, her gaze distant, serene. A small nod. Nothing more.
After a moment, I gathered courage again. "Also… I wanted to ask if there's anywhere I could get a job?"
At that, her eyes opened fully—sharp, assessing. She took another sip of tea before answering. "I think so. I'll ask the others when they return."
"So we'll wait?" I asked.
"For now." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "In the meantime, we should go mail your letter."
She rose then, the sunlight wrapping around her like silk. I followed, clutching the sealed envelope. The wax still warm against my thumb.
The courtyard breeze carried the scent of dumplings and tea leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rang once, long and low.
It was the kind of sound that made you believe—just for a moment—that the gods still listened.
---