The Guardian of the Forgotten Shrine

The bus disappeared in a cloud of dust, leaving Yuki alone at the foot of the mountain.
The engine’s hum faded away, swallowed by the relentless chorus of cicadas.
She tightened the straps of her backpack and looked up at the stone staircase winding through the trees, vanishing into the green shadow of the forest.

Three hundred steps, her teacher had said. Maybe four hundred. No one really counts anymore.

Two weeks, Yuki thought as she began her climb. Two weeks to prove I’m worthy of becoming a miko.

It was her final trial — three years of learning rituals by heart, reciting prayers, spending sleepless nights studying ancient texts. All of it led here.
To this forgotten shrine.
To this mission.

Evaluate the yōkai.
Determine the level of danger.
Seal or erase.

Her teacher’s voice still echoed in her mind — sharp as the edge of a blade.
“You are ready, Yuki. Do not disappoint me.”

I won’t disappoint you, she had promised, bowing deeply.

The late summer light filtered through the foliage, scattering moving patterns across the mossy steps. The air was heavy with humidity and the sweet scent of wildflowers.
Halfway up, Yuki stopped to catch her breath. Surrounded by the dense, watchful silence of the forest, she wondered if she was truly ready.

The first torii appeared around a bend, leaning like an old man worn by time.
The once-red paint peeled away in large flakes, exposing the greyed wood beneath. Vines had climbed its pillars.
Yuki bowed and passed beneath it. Abandoned or not, a shrine was still sacred ground.

The steps grew uneven, cracked by roots and overrun with weeds.
No one had come this way for a long time — fifty years, her teacher had said.
Fifty years of silence and decay since the yōkai had been sealed.

A fox, Yuki recalled. Sealed for loving a human.

She had wanted to ask more, but her teacher had cut her off:
“The details do not matter. What matters is that you complete your duty.”

At last, Yuki stepped onto the main shrine grounds.

The shrine stood before her — smaller than she had imagined. The dark wooden buildings blended with the surrounding forest, as though nature itself was reclaiming them.
The tiled roofs were carpeted with moss, ferns sprouting between the planks.
A bronze suzu bell hung beneath the eaves of the main hall, still and silent, waiting for a hand that might never come again.

Yet despite its decay, there was peace here.
A kind of quiet, melancholic beauty that squeezed the heart.

Yuki set down her bag and approached the hall.
The floorboards creaked under her feet. She slid the door open — it resisted for a moment before giving way with a soft groan — and stepped inside.

The air smelled of old wood and faded incense. Dusty tatami mats covered the floor.
At the back, a small altar sat beneath a window, still adorned with long-forgotten offerings — mummified fruit, flowers turned to dust.
Pale light filtered through, illuminating the drifting motes of dust like faint stars.

Is this where she was sealed? Yuki wondered, peering into the shadows.

But she saw nothing. No one.
Only silence.

She spent the afternoon cleaning: sweeping the dust, laying out her futon, lighting incense to greet the kami.
Outside, the sunset clung to the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and rose.

Yuki ate a cold onigiri, watching the overgrown garden. Wildflowers bloomed everywhere — pale pink cosmos, blue bellflowers, and near the old stone well, a patch of pure white lilies glowing in the fading light.

White lilies, she noted absently. It’s rare to see them grow wild like this.

She wondered if someone had once planted them, if anyone had ever tended them. But they seemed untouched — wild and free, growing stubbornly among the stones and weeds.

Night laid its hand over the mountain.

By the dim glow of her lantern, Yuki studied — the gestures of sealing, the order of invocation, the tracing of the circle.
Her lips moved in whispers of forgotten syllables. Everything had to be perfect. There was no room for mistakes.

Then she heard it — a faint chime, like a small bell carried by the wind.

Her body stiffened. The sound came from the courtyard.

Lantern in hand, bare feet brushing the still-warm wood, Yuki stepped outside. The night air caressed the back of her neck.
Above her, the sky was an ink-black sea scattered with countless stars, so many that they seemed to weave a shimmering veil of light.

And there — sitting on the stone slabs at the center of the courtyard — was someone.

Yuki froze.

A young woman — or something that only resembled one — sat quietly, wearing a white kimono far too large for her, slipping from her narrow shoulders.
Her hair, a tangled cascade of russet and leaves, flowed down her back.
But what caught Yuki’s eyes first were the ears — two fox ears drooping gently atop her head.
Behind her, a fluffy tail lay motionless across the stones.

The yōkai didn’t move.
She gazed at the sky, still as a statue.
Her eyes were open, but empty — two glass marbles devoid of life.

A yellowed talisman hung from her forehead, written in faded red ink, one corner peeled away like a poster half torn by the wind.

It’s her. Akari.

Trembling, Yuki stepped closer.
“Excuse me…”

No answer.

“Are you Akari-san?”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

Up close, the yōkai looked young — seventeen, maybe eighteen, with delicate features and a gentle face. But her eyes… her eyes saw nothing.

On impulse, Yuki reached out and pressed the loose talisman gently back into place.

And then, Akari’s eyes fluttered. Once. Twice. Then they lit up, as if someone had just rekindled the light within her.
She turned toward Yuki, and a radiant smile bloomed across her face.

“Ah!”

Yuki flinched, nearly dropping her lantern.

Akari tilted her head, her ears perking up, curious.
“Hello! Who are you?” Her voice was clear, slightly playful.
“Oh wait—where are we?”

Yuki opened her mouth, then closed it again, her words caught somewhere between disbelief and awe.

Akari stood up in one swift motion.
She was taller than Yuki, slender, graceful — as if she might float away at any moment. Her eyes darted around the courtyard, wide with wonder, as though she were seeing it for the first time.

“It’s… pretty here,” she said softly. “Tired, but pretty.”

She turned to Yuki with a bright smile. “So? Who are you?”

Yuki found her voice again. “I’m Yuki. Apprentice miko. I was sent here to…” She hesitated. “…to take care of the shrine.”

“Yuki!” Akari repeated, testing the name on her tongue like tasting a new flavor. “Yuki, Yuki, Yuki. That’s lovely — just like you.”
She grinned. “I’m Akari. I think. Sometimes I forget.”

She laughed — a light, crystalline sound that rippled through the silence of the night.

Yuki frowned. “You… forget your own name?”

“Mmh, yeah. Sometimes.”
Akari shrugged with an unsettling casualness.
“I forget lots of things. Where I am. What I was doing. Why I’m here…”

She paused, then looked at Yuki with sudden intensity.
“Hey… do we know each other?”

Before Yuki could answer, Akari spun around and pointed toward the forest.
“Oh, look! Fireflies!”

Tiny green lights were beginning to dance among the trees, flickering gently in the dark.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Akari said, her eyes sparkling. “They shine so brightly because their lives are short.”

She turned back to Yuki, and in her smile there was something sad.

“It’s like us, don’t you think? We shine as long as we can… even when we don’t know how much time we have left.”

Yuki said nothing. She couldn’t.
This was nothing like she had expected.

Akari took a few slow steps, gazing at the stars. Her ears twitched faintly.
Her hand rose to her forehead, touching the talisman.

“That’s strange…” she whispered. “I feel like…”

Before she could finish, the paper stirred.

Yuki saw it — the talisman lifted as if pulled by an invisible breath, then pressed itself firmly back against Akari’s skin.

The change was immediate.

Akari’s smile faded. The light vanished from her eyes.
Her body went limp, collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Akari-san!”

Yuki caught her just in time. The body was light — too light — as if made of air.
Her eyes remained open, empty once more.

“No, no…” Yuki shook her gently. “Akari-san? Akari!”

No one answered. Only silence.

A chill crept down Yuki’s spine.
This isn’t a seal of protection… it’s a cage.
A cage that erases everything.

She carried Akari inside and laid her carefully upon the tatami, beside her own futon.
She adjusted the kimono, brushed the stray hair from her face, and stared at the cursed paper.

What did they do to you…? she thought, touching Akari’s cold cheek.

Outside, the fireflies continued to dance in the summer night — fleeting, beautiful, doomed.

Yuki sat cross-legged beside the sleeping fox spirit and gazed at the stars through the open window.

Two weeks, she whispered to herself. Two weeks to decide her fate.

But deep inside, Yuki already knew — two weeks would never be enough.