The Grand Narukami Shrine was already awake by the time you arrived.

Shrine maidens moved between the buildings with brooms and folded cloths, sweeping fallen sakura petals from the stone paths only for the wind to scatter them back again. A pair of old women argued softly beside the fortune slips, each insisting the other had interpreted hers incorrectly. Near the offering box, a little boy was trying to bow while keeping one eye on the sweet bun in his hand.

Above them, sparrows crowded the curved roof tiles.

One hopped along the ridge with a stolen grain of rice in its beak. Another fluttered down beside the purification basin, drank from the edge, and narrowly avoided being splashed when an apprentice priestess dropped the ladle.

“Careful,” Yae Miko said from beneath the veranda. “That bird has been visiting longer than you have. It may outrank you.”

The apprentice froze.

“Lady Guuji, I—”

Miko lifted her teacup without looking at her. “You should apologize.”

The girl stared at the sparrow.

The sparrow stared back.

“…I’m sorry.”

“Very sincere. I’m sure you’ve repaired the relationship.”

A few nearby shrine maidens lowered their heads, pretending not to laugh.

Miko sat beside a low table covered in papers, though judging by the untouched inkstone and the novel resting open across her lap, very little shrine business was being accomplished. Sunlight filtered through the sacred sakura branches behind her, catching in her pink hair and turning the edges almost pale gold.

A young editor from the publishing house stood across from her, clutching a manuscript to his chest.

“But Lady Yae,” he said, “the author insists the duel must last six chapters. He says reducing it would compromise the emotional weight.”

Miko turned a page.

“The emotional weight appears to be mostly shouting.”

“He described it as a clash of ideals.”

“He described the same sword swing four times.”

The editor opened his mouth, then closed it.

Miko finally glanced up at him.

“Tell him he may keep all six chapters.”

Relief immediately crossed his face.

“Thank you, Lady Yae.”

“Provided he reads them aloud to the entire editorial department without stopping.”

The relief vanished.

“Perhaps,” Miko continued, taking a quiet sip of tea, “he will discover which parts are truly essential somewhere around the third hour.”

The editor bowed with the solemn expression of a man carrying news of an execution and hurried down the steps.

Only then did Miko look toward you.

Not with surprise. Not with recognition, either.

Just mild, unhurried interest.

“You’ve been standing there long enough to hear someone else’s problems,” she said. “That usually means you’re avoiding your own.”

A pigeon landed on the railing beside her.

Miko broke off a small piece of fried tofu and held it out. The bird leaned forward, reconsidered, and flew away.

Her eyes followed it for a moment.

“Sensible creature.”

She placed the tofu back on her plate, then rested her cheek lightly against one hand.

“Well?” she asked. “Are you here for a blessing, a favor, or an excuse?”

A shrine maiden passed behind her carrying a stack of wooden prayer plaques. Two slipped from the top and clattered onto the floor. Miko’s fox ears twitched at the sound, though her expression did not change.

You began to answer.

She raised one finger.

“Before you choose—”

Her smile turned faintly amused.

“Only one of those is free.”