The Woman and the Shrine

It was raining again.

The soft pitter-patter of droplets on the shrine roof had long since lost its charm. Once, the sound was a sacred rhythm—nature’s hymn to the spirits that guarded this place. Now, it was just noise. Cold, damp noise.

I curled up tighter beneath the old offering box, my tail coiled around my legs like a blanket. The wind snuck through the rotted wood of the shrine walls and tugged at the hem of the oversized shirt I wore, the last remnant of my once-proud uniform. It hung awkwardly past my knees, threadbare in places, but I still wore it like it mattered. Because it did. Because I was still the shrine's guardian spirit—even if there was no one left to guard.

It had been… fifty? Sixty winters? Maybe more. Time gets strange when you’re alone. The humans had all vanished from the village down the hill. First slowly, then all at once. The bells stopped ringing. The incense stopped burning. And the offerings—those sweet little dumplings and warm sake cups—they stopped too.

I hadn’t spoken to anyone in decades. Not even a sparrow. Not even the wind.

So when I heard footsteps on the overgrown stone path, my ears perked up immediately.

I froze. My heart—yes, I still had one—thumped like a taiko drum. Someone was coming. A human? A ghost? One of the forest spirits? No, they wouldn’t be so loud. Whoever it was, they weren’t trying to hide.

I peeked through a crack in the wooden wall.

A woman, soaked from head to toe, trudged up the moss-covered steps with a cheap convenience store umbrella barely holding together. Her hair—short and messy like a crow’s nest—clung to her face in dripping strands. Her clothes were too nice for a farmer, too rumpled for a traveler. She didn’t look around. She didn’t notice the faded torii gate or the broken shimenawa rope swaying above her.

She looked… tired. Bone-deep tired. Like a spirit whose fire had long since burned out.

My tail twitched.

Why was she here?

She stopped in front of the offering box, hesitated, then let out a breath that fogged the air. “Is this even still a shrine?” she muttered to herself.

Rude. Of course it was still a shrine! I’ve been keeping it standing, haven’t I? Well… mostly standing.

She stared at the old wooden box like it owed her something. Her eyes were the kind that had seen too much and felt too little. I could tell. I know that kind of emptiness. I wore it for years.

Then she did something strange.

She placed both hands together, bowed her head slightly, and whispered a prayer. A small one. I couldn’t catch the words—but it was enough. Enough to stir something old and sacred inside me.

She was the first person to pray here in over fifty years.

I stood up.

My bare feet made no sound on the wood floor as I stepped out from the shadows. My ears twitched, adjusting to the light. My tail flicked once, shaking off a stray leaf. My shirt flapped lightly in the breeze, but I didn’t care.

The woman looked up slowly—and her eyes met mine.

She froze.

I tilted my head.

She blinked. I blinked.

Then she did the one thing I least expected.

She screamed.

“A-Ah?! What—?! Who—?!”

She stumbled back, umbrella flying from her hands as she slipped on the mossy stones. I flinched as she landed hard on her backside.

“You—! You have ears—! And—and a tail?! Is this cosplay?! Am I hallucinating?!”

I narrowed my eyes. “Cosplay…?”

Her eyes widened again.

“You… you talked?!”

“Yes,” I said plainly. “I can also walk. And think. And feel offended.”

She stared at me like I was a ghost.

Which, I suppose, in her eyes—I might as well be.

The woman stayed on the ground, blinking up at me like a stunned raccoon. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. I could see the gears turning behind her eyes—but they must have been rusted from disuse.

Finally, she found her voice. "You’re… real?"

I squinted. “You’re not very polite for a visitor.”

She scrambled to her feet, wiping rain and moss from her pants. “Sorry—uh—miss… fox?” Her eyes drifted again to my ears and tail. “Are you, like… one of those yokai?”

I crossed my arms. “I am not ‘like’ one. I am one. A proud kitsune spirit, guardian of this shrine.”

I puffed out my chest a little, trying to appear taller. It didn’t help much. She was at least two heads taller than me, and I was barefoot and wet. Dignity was difficult to maintain when you looked like a damp stray cat in an old shirt.

“A… kitsune?” she said softly, almost to herself. “I thought they were supposed to be beautiful and graceful…”

“I am young,” I snapped, tail bristling. “Only seven hundred and twenty.”

“Oh,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “That’s… young?”

“In kitsune years.”

“Right…”

There was a pause.

Then the rain made a low humming sound as it struck the shrine roof, and she turned her face slightly upward, blinking water from her lashes.

“I didn’t think anyone was up here,” she said. “I was just wandering. I didn’t expect to find a… you.”

“Well, I didn’t expect to be found,” I muttered. “Not after all this time.”

Something in my voice must’ve softened her. She glanced around the old structure with a guilty expression, like she’d just walked into someone’s home without knocking. I suppose she had.

“This shrine…” she said quietly, “it’s barely standing.”

“Don’t insult it.”

“Sorry. I just meant—it’s sad. Beautiful, but forgotten.”

I didn’t say anything.

She stepped forward, carefully avoiding the worst of the rotted floorboards, and looked more closely at the altar. The old wooden ema plaques still hung there, though many were faded or rotting. A few had fallen and were half-buried in dust.

She ran her fingers gently over one. “These wishes… they’re from long ago.”

“Some came true,” I said, almost defensively.

“Some didn’t,” she replied, softly.

We stood in silence again. The kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy. Like a blanket full of old memories.

Then her stomach growled.

Loudly.

She froze. I raised an eyebrow.

“…Sorry,” she said, her face going slightly red. “I skipped lunch.”

“You dared approach a sacred shrine without offering food first,” I said, tail twitching dramatically. “How disrespectful.”

“I didn’t know you were real!”

“I’m still hungry.”

She looked down at her bag, which hung off her shoulder by a damp strap. She opened it, rifled around, and pulled out… a crushed convenience store onigiri.

It was sad-looking. Slightly mushed. Probably tuna mayo.

“This is all I have.”

I snatched it anyway.

She blinked. “You don’t want to purify it or… chant over it or something?”

I already had it halfway unwrapped. “Do I look like I have the energy to chant?”

“Fair enough.”

The first bite was bliss. Even crushed and cold, it was the first offering I’d had in decades. I closed my eyes and let the salt and rice spread across my tongue like sunlight through leaves.

When I looked up again, the woman was just watching me. Not scared anymore. Not shocked. Just… watching. Like I was some strange little animal she’d stumbled across in the woods.

“You live here alone?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Too long.”

She hesitated. “Aren’t you lonely?”

I licked a bit of rice from my thumb. “Lonely spirits are dangerous.”

“…Are you dangerous?”

“Only when thunder scares me.”

She smiled a little at that.

It was the first real smile I’d seen in a very, very long time.

She reached for her umbrella—now upside-down and dripping in the dirt—and picked it up. “Well, I should probably head back. I rented a room down in the village. Not much else around, but the bathhouse still works.”

I tilted my head. “The village still has people?”

“Barely,” she said, glancing downhill. “Most of the shops are shut. But a few stubborn old buildings are still clinging on.”

She turned to go, then stopped. “Um… would you be upset if I came back tomorrow?”

I blinked.

“What for?”

She shrugged. “To bring you something to eat. Or… maybe fix something around here. You look like you could use some help.”

I narrowed my eyes, unsure if I was being pitied or respected.

“…You can come back,” I said carefully, “but only if you bring warm food. And no tofu. Everyone thinks kitsunes love tofu. It’s a stereotype.”

“Noted.”

She started down the steps, umbrella wobbling above her head. Just before disappearing down the path, she called over her shoulder:

“By the way, I’m Iwakura Shiori.”

I said nothing at first. Just watched her go.

Then, quietly, I whispered back:

“…My name is Beni.”

And for the first time in years, I wasn’t just the spirit of a forgotten shrine anymore.

I was Beni.

And someone knew I was still here.