The Morning After the Moonlight

Ayaka didn’t sleep much after the festival. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that blue spirit’s face—the one that had dissolved into light—and the flicker of crimson that had saved her. The demon’s smirk still lingered in her mind like a stain she couldn’t scrub off.

Morning light spilled through her window. Kitsura was already awake, lounging atop her dresser and licking his paw with unnerving calm.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” he said, not even glancing up.

“I’m not thinking loudly.”

“You’re brooding. That’s worse.”

Ayaka threw her pillow at him. He phased through it, naturally.

“Kitsura, I almost got eaten by a ghost,” she groaned, sitting up and dragging her hands through her messy hair. “And then he showed up. Again. Why is it always him?”

“The demon?” Kitsura’s tail swished. “He’s drawn to chaos. And you, my dear Ayaka, are a one-woman festival of it.”

Ayaka glared. “You’re really helpful, you know that?”

“I try.”

By the time she trudged out to sweep the shrine steps, the town was already stirring. Villagers came to offer prayers and gossip in equal measure. She could hear the whispers even when their lips didn’t move.

“The younger maiden was out last night.”

“Did something happen at the woods?”

“Maybe she angered the gods…”

Ayaka pressed her broom harder against the stone, wishing she could sweep their words away too.

Then a voice, sharp and calm, cut through the air.

“Ayaka.”

Her sister, Yukino, stood at the top of the stairs. Perfect posture. Perfect robes. Perfectly annoyed.

“Good morning, Yukino,” Ayaka said brightly, feigning innocence. “Beautiful weather we’re having, right?”

“Don’t.” Yukino crossed her arms. “The elders felt a demonic pulse near the southern forest last night. You were there, weren’t you?”

Ayaka froze. “Um… depends. Which southern forest?”

Yukino’s frown deepened. “The one near the shrine, Ayaka.”

“Ah. That southern forest.”

Kitsura appeared on the steps beside her, yawning. “Before you lecture her, know that she technically did handle the situation.”

Yukino arched an eyebrow. “Technically?”

Kitsura shrugged. “She’s still alive, isn’t she?”

Yukino exhaled, eyes narrowing. “You’ve always had a strange definition of success.”

Ayaka stepped forward, gripping her broom like a staff. “Look, I didn’t mean to cause trouble. There was this spirit kid crying in the woods, and I tried to help, but—”

“But you weren’t strong enough,” Yukino finished quietly.

Ayaka’s chest tightened. “That’s not—”

“You’re not ready,” Yukino said flatly. “The shrine’s balance is fragile. If you can’t control your spiritual flow, you could make things worse. Do you understand?”

Kitsura’s eyes flicked between them, tail twitching. The silence stretched, heavy and sour.

Finally, Ayaka mumbled, “Yeah. I understand.”

Yukino gave her a long look—somewhere between pity and frustration—then turned and walked back toward the main hall.

Ayaka stayed there, staring at the ground until Kitsura floated down beside her.

“You hate when she’s right,” he said.

“She’s not right,” Ayaka muttered. “She just… sounds like she is.”

Kitsura’s tone softened. “You did fine, Ayaka. That spirit passed on. That’s what matters.”

She didn’t respond. The broom bristles dragged in lazy circles against the stone.

Then something black caught her eye.

A single feather lay on the ground near the torii gate—black as ink, shimmering faintly in the sunlight.

Ayaka bent to pick it up. It was warm. Almost pulsing.

“Don’t touch that,” Kitsura warned, ears flattening.

Too late. The second her fingers closed around it, she heard it—

a low voice, calm and dry as smoke:

“Still cleaning up your own messes, little shrine girl?”

Ayaka froze. The voice was everywhere and nowhere.

Kitsura bristled, eyes darting around. “Show yourself, fiend.”

Nothing. Only a faint echo of laughter drifting through the air.

Ayaka looked down at the feather again. It had gone cold.

Kitsura studied her face. “You heard him, didn’t you?”

“…Maybe.”

He sighed. “You’re being marked, Ayaka.”

Her heart skipped. “Marked?”

“It’s not a curse. Not yet. Just… a link.”

Ayaka exhaled, forcing a shaky grin. “Well, that’s great. A personal connection with evil itself. Maybe he’ll start paying shrine dues.”

Kitsura rolled his eyes. “You joke, but if you keep touching demonic residue, I’ll need a bigger purification basin.”

Ayaka looked at the feather again before tucking it carefully into her sleeve. “Let him come. I’m not scared.”

“Good,” Kitsura said. “But maybe be scared a little.”

That night, the wind picked up. The paper charms on the eaves rattled softly. Ayaka lay awake again, staring at the ceiling.

From somewhere far off, faint laughter drifted through the trees—cold and familiar.

And for just a second, the air smelled faintly of ash.