Youchan’s Daily Report

YOUCHAN'S JOURNAL - ENTRY # 31 (the one she will pretend she didn't write)

The morning air was still, carrying the faint scent of blooming sakura. I swept the stone path in long, practiced strokes, the broom whispering softly across moss that had grown on this land for centuries.

Peace like this is what the Fujikura family has guarded for generations.

My family’s duty is older than the Bureau itself. Shrine guardians, veil keepers, quiet watchers who maintain Japan’s hidden balance. We never sought power. We stood behind it, strengthening the places where the world grew thin.

Father used to say:

“True strength leaves no trace.”

I built my life around that idea.

Which is why, when I looked up and saw him standing halfway up the shrine steps, sunlight pooling behind him like a stage spotlight, I felt my breath catch.

Mutsuki Kuroyanagi.

I hadn’t sensed him approach at all.

No outsider should be able to slip past my detection barrier. Only my own family, the powerful ones, and a handful of extremely skilled shrine priests, can conceal their presence from me. Yet he stood there, soft and quiet, as if he had always belonged among the sakura.

His aura, though heavily masked, hummed beneath the morning air like a muted melody. Strong, sorrowful, restrained.

People had whispered so many things about him:

—the prodigy

—the runaway

—the idol

—the accident

—the embarrassment

—the miracle

But the boy standing on my shrine steps looked like none of those things. He looked… lost. And startled. And a bit lonely.

And then the children saw him.

Mon tugged his sleeve. Gon wrapped around his arm like a fox plushie. Honey nearly crushed him with affection. Meow tripped into him twice. Akashi sniffed him like prey. Sumire demanded royal greetings. Kishin teared up. Kojiro judged him from the roof.

And Mutsuki, He didn’t flinch. He didn’t scold. He didn’t recoil… He laughed. At first awkwardly. Then warmly. He let them tug, climb, chatter, hug, cling, complain, all without ever looking annoyed.

A Kuroyanagi heir should have been haughty. Distant. Pretending they were doing charity by being here. But he… he melted into their chaos like he’d been starving for a place to simply exist.

It startled me… I remembered the first time I met Maria Kuroyanagi, his cousin.

She had sought me out years ago, desperate and exhausted, when Mutsuki vanished from his family. From this world. She had torn through every ward in Japan. 

She demanded from me. No, negotiated. Not out of arrogance, but because she’d finally found someone who could help her.

I still remember her kneeling before me, saying, “Please. He’s hurting. Help me find him.”

So I did.

In return, she taught me spells only Bureau elites knew. Layered wards, sound-based detection, floating sigils, ancient channeling techniques. She brought me into missions when I was lonely, gave me purpose outside these walls, and treated me like an equal even though shrine maidens usually go unseen.

Maria never broke a promise. Never demanded repayment. Never looked down on my chosen solitude. That is why I am loyal to her. That is why I agreed to help her cousin.

But I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect him.

Later, when he fell asleep beneath the sakura, the sunlight catching on his pale hair, his makeup faded, exhaustion pulling at his expression, I realized just how fragile he truly was.

His glamour had weakened. The redness around his eyes told me the truth: He cried last night. Probably alone. Probably silently.

The children didn’t see it. They only saw a sleeping sensei, his soft hair, his peaceful breathing, his pink whiskers. A perfect opportunity to cover him in art projects.

They placed petals in his hair. Taped drawings to his chest. Balanced a paper crown on his head reading: “Best Sensei (Probably a Boy)”

I didn’t stop them. I even took a picture. Because he looked gentle in a way that made my heart ache.

When we cast the barriers together afterward, I felt something extraordinary. His magic wove with mine naturally and effortlessly. Like two melodies harmonizing without trying.

His power is elegant but wounded. It responded to mine as if relieved. When our palms brushed over the barrier stones, his breath hitched. Mine did too. It scared me and warmed me at the same time. It made me aware of how long I’ve been alone.

The Fujikura line lives quietly. We dedicate our hearts to the shrine. We stay still so the world can remain peaceful. I accepted that long ago.

Until now.

When he invited me to dinner… I forgot my duty for a heartbeat. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to leave the shrine with him. I wanted to walk beside him under lantern light. I wanted to hear his laugh again. I wanted… something I don’t have words for.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

Still, when he asked, fidgeting, hopeful, for my number, something bloomed in my chest that I didn’t know I could feel. He gave me trust freely.

When he walked down the stone path at sunset, sakura drifting around him, whiskers glowing embarrassingly pink, he didn’t look ridiculous. He looked human. Softly, vulnerably human. Not a vampire. Not an idol. Not a runaway heir. Just Mutsuki.

And as he vanished through the torii, I touched my hand to my chest. This shrine has always been peaceful. But today… today, it feels warm.

And I fear… No. I hope…

I’m looking forward to tomorrow.