Night settled over the shrine like a held breath.
Not the heavy kind of darkness that presses on the chest, but the quiet kind—the sort that wraps itself around lantern light and listens. The mist returned after dusk, thin and obedient, curling low along the stone paths as if it remembered where it was allowed to go.
The shrine slept.
Or perhaps—watched.
By the time dusk leaned against the mountains, Shinren was still there.
And so, without ever deciding to stay, he simply did.
Shinren sat on the edge of the old wooden veranda, legs dangling, a bamboo flute resting loosely between his fingers. He hadn't meant to play. He rarely did with intention. The music always seemed to arrive first, tugging at his hands before his thoughts could catch up.
The moon hovered above the torii gate, pale and unhurried, washing the world in silver. Foxfire flickered lazily near the steps, blinking in and out like drowsy stars.
He lifted the flute.
The first note slipped out quietly—almost shy.
Then another.
Then the melody found its spine.
It wasn't a heroic tune. No soaring crescendos. No sorrowful wailing. Just a simple, wandering sound, like someone walking home slowly because they didn't want the road to end.
The shrine listened.
From the inner corridor, the fox maiden paused.
She had been refolding prayer cloths—an unnecessary task she had done a thousand times before, a habit left over from centuries when keeping busy was easier than remembering. At the sound of the flute, her hands stilled.
Ah… that melody again.
It wasn't familiar in the way memories were familiar. It didn't strike like recognition. Instead, it brushed past her heart like a half-forgotten dream—soft, insistent, leaving behind a faint ache she couldn't name.
She stepped outside barefoot.
Moonlight caught in her hair, traced the curve of her sleeves, painted silver along the tips of her tails. They swayed gently behind her, slower than usual, as if the night had asked them to be quiet.
Shinren didn't notice her at first.
He sat hunched slightly forward, eyes lowered, breath syncing with the tune. For once, he wasn't clumsy. For once, he wasn't talking. The flute rested easily against his lips, as if it belonged there.
She watched him.
Mortals were strange. Loud, fragile, endlessly temporary. She had watched generations come and go like falling leaves. And yet—this one sat under her moon, playing as though time had all the patience in the world.
Her tail flicked.
One note wavered.
Shinren startled, nearly dropping the flute. "I—I didn't mean to wake anyone—"
"You didn't," she said softly.
He turned. "Oh. You were… there."
"I often am."
She sat beside him, close enough that their sleeves brushed. The wood beneath them was cool, worn smooth by years of kneeling prayers and unspoken wishes.
The flute lowered. Silence returned—but not the empty kind. The music lingered, clinging to the air like warmth after a fire dies down.
"That song," she said, gaze fixed on the moon. "Where did you learn it?"
Shinren shrugged. "I didn't, really. It just… happens."
"Hm."
She closed her eyes briefly.
A long time ago—no, not a memory. Just a feeling. Moonlight on stone. A sound carried on night wind. Someone laughing, then stopping too suddenly.
She opened her eyes.
"You play like someone who doesn't know what he's holding," she said.
"That bad, huh?"
She smiled. Not teasing this time. Something quieter. "Dangerous."
He laughed, scratching his cheek. "You say that like it's a compliment."
"It is."
They sat like that for a while. No rush. No reason to fill the silence.
Somewhere deeper in the shrine, a small fox statue caught the moonlight just right. Its stone eyes gleamed.
The fox maiden leaned back on her hands. "You know," she said casually, "most mortals tremble when they realize where they are."
"I figured if I trembled, I'd fall off the veranda."
She huffed a laugh. "Practical."
"Besides," he added, glancing at her, "it's peaceful here. Feels like the kind of place that wouldn't hurt you unless you really deserved it."
Her smile faltered—just for a breath.
Peaceful, yes.
Harmless… no.
But she said nothing.
Instead, she nudged his knee lightly with her own. "Play again."
He lifted the flute. "Any requests?"
She thought of a thousand years. Of names lost. Of nights too similar to this one.
"Play something happy," she said. "While you still can."
He didn't ask what she meant.
The melody returned—lighter this time, playful, with little stumbles and recoveries woven in. It sounded like laughter learning how to walk.
Her tails curled around her unconsciously, one tip brushing his sleeve.
He froze. Then relaxed.
The moon climbed higher.
Mist thickened, then thinned.
And far above, unseen and uninterested for now, Heaven sharpened its blade—slowly, patiently—while below, under silver light, a fox maiden listened to a mortal's flute and allowed herself, just for tonight, to believe in peace.