Morning arrived without ceremony.
Sunlight slipped through the trees in thin strands, brushing the shrine steps, warming the moss, nudging the lantern flames into quiet surrender. The mist retreated slowly, reluctant to leave behind the secrets it had guarded through the night.
Shinren woke with a yawn—and immediately regretted it.
"Oh. Right," he muttered, blinking at the sacred tree above him. "Fox shrine. Nearly died. Excellent start."
He sat up too fast.
Across the courtyard, the fox-maiden froze mid-step.
They saw each other at the exact same moment.
Silence.
Not the comfortable kind from last night—but the sharp, awkward sort that pokes at your ribs and refuses to leave.
"…Good morning," Shinren said, far too cheerfully.
She turned away instantly.
"Humans shouldn't sleep in sacred places," she replied, tone cool, posture perfect. "You drool."
"I—what? I do not—" He wiped his mouth on instinct, then paused. "…Okay maybe a little."
Her tail flicked.
Once.
He caught it.
A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
She noticed.
"I allowed you to stay until dawn," she said, resuming her chores with exaggerated focus. "Dawn has passed."
"That's true," Shinren agreed. "But in my defense, the ground was surprisingly comfortable. Very… spiritually supportive."
No response.
He stood, dusted himself off, and watched her for a moment longer than necessary. The way she moved in daylight was different—less ethereal, more real. Less spirit. More girl.
That thought startled him.
"So," he said carefully, "do fox spirits usually threaten visitors, or was I special?"
She paused.
"…You were annoying," she replied.
He grinned. "I'll treasure that."
A breeze passed through the shrine. The foxfire from the night before was gone, leaving only faint warmth in the stones.
She finally glanced at him again.
Briefly.
Her cheeks were—very faintly—pink.
"You should leave," she said. "Before other humans arrive."
Shinren nodded. "Yeah. I figured."
He took a few steps toward the path… then stopped.
"Oh—before I forget," he said, reaching for the flute at his side. "I didn't get a chance to play last night."
Her ears twitched before she could stop them.
"…This is not a place for performances," she said.
"Not a performance," Shinren replied softly. "Just a thank-you."
He lifted the flute.
The first note was gentle. Careful. Like someone stepping onto ice they trusted—but not completely. The melody that followed was simple, unpolished, but warm. It drifted through the shrine, curling around pillars and trees, settling into the morning air.
The fox-maiden stopped sweeping.
She didn't turn around.
But she listened.
When the tune ended, the shrine felt… fuller.
Shinren lowered the flute. "I'll go now."
She hesitated.
"…If you return," she said, voice quieter than before, "don't hide."
He smiled—not wide, not playful. Just honest.
"I won't."
He left without another word.
The fox-maiden stood alone in the courtyard long after his footsteps faded.
Her hand rested lightly against her chest.
"…Troublesome human," she murmured.
But this time—
She smiled.