Shinren returned three days later.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just… there.
The fox-maiden sensed him before she saw him—footsteps careful, familiar in their hesitation. She pretended not to notice, sweeping fallen leaves near the shrine steps with deliberate focus.
He cleared his throat.
"Good morning," he said. "I didn't hide."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"I can see that."
Her gaze flicked briefly to his hands. Empty.
No offerings. No mischief.
"…You're early," she added.
"I had a feeling," Shinren replied. "You seem like someone who prefers mornings."
She didn't ask how he knew.
Instead, she turned back to her work. "You may stay. But don't interfere."
"Understood," he said, immediately sitting on the shrine steps and interfering with absolutely nothing.
The hours passed gently.
Too gently.
Birdsong drifted. Wind moved through bamboo. Shinren watched as she worked—repairing a loose charm, replacing incense, scolding a squirrel that dared climb the sacred tree.
At some point, she spoke without looking at him.
"You're staring."
"Observing," he corrected. "With appreciation."
Her ears reddened.
"Humans are troublesome."
"I've been told," he replied.
By noon, he was helping—handing tools when asked, sweeping when told, and once nearly dropping a box of offerings before saving it with a panicked yelp.
She laughed.
It slipped out before she could stop it.
Both of them froze.
The sound lingered in the air—soft, surprised, real.
"…You didn't hear that," she said quickly.
Shinren blinked, then smiled like he'd been handed a treasure.
"I did," he said. "But I won't tell anyone."
They shared tea beneath the sacred tree.
No words. Just warmth.
As the sun dipped lower, Shinren stood. "I should go."
She nodded—too quickly.
"…You come often," she said, as if realizing it herself. "Do humans usually visit shrines this much?"
"Only the ones they don't want to forget," he replied.
She paused.
"…You never asked my name."
"I know," Shinren said. "I figured you'd tell me when you wanted to."
She looked at him then—really looked.
The shrine seemed to quiet around them.
"My name," she said slowly, "is—"
A chill ran through the air.
The lanterns flickered.
Somewhere beyond the forest, a sound echoed—low, distorted, wrong. Like something imitating a melody without understanding it.
Shinren felt it.
The fox-maiden felt it deeply.
She stopped.
Her tail stiffened.
"…You should leave," she said sharply.
"What was that?" Shinren asked.
"Nothing," she replied too quickly. "Go."
He hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He bowed once. "Then… tomorrow."
He left.
The fox-maiden stood alone beneath the sacred tree, fingers clenched in her sleeves.
"That sound…" she whispered.
Far away—unseen, unheard by humans—a shadow shifted.
And the shrine, ancient and watchful, remembered something it had long tried to forget.