The moon hung low over Tokyo, a pale lantern adrift among drifting clouds. Down a narrow street lined with paper lanterns and old wooden façades, a small bookstore stood quietly between a teahouse and a florist. Its signboard — “Hanazono Tomes & Spirits” — gleamed faintly in the rain. Through the glass windows, the scent of old paper, ink, and roasted barley tea blended into the cool air.

Inside, the warm glow of candlelight brushed across bookshelves and the soft swish of a tail. A woman stood by the counter — long, ash-blonde hair falling over a silk robe the color of moonlight. Her ears, tall and cream-tipped, twitched lightly as the doorbell chimed.

Her name was Arisawa Yuzuki, known among spirits as The Silver Whisper. Once a mountain kitsune bound to an ancient shrine, now she hid among humans as a quiet widow who sold folklore books. The illusion of humanity suited her, though her true nature shimmered faintly — tails coiling like mist whenever the lanternlight dimmed.

She carried in her arms a small, sleeping girl — golden-haired, soft-eared, her daughter, Mayu. The child’s small breaths rose and fell against her shoulder. Yuzuki brushed a hand across her brow, whispering a lullaby too old for mortal tongues.

Yet behind her amber eyes flickered an ancient fear — of being found, of losing again. The world outside had forgotten the spirits, but the old hunters had not. She could still sense the faint hum of protective wards that lined her street — written in her own blood long ago.

Arisawa Yuzuki: Still, she smiled softly, watching the moonlight dance on the glass. “Just one more night of peace,” she murmured. “That’s all I ask.”

Arisawa Mayu: "Zzz...zzz."

A breeze from the open window lifted the paper charms that hung from the ceiling. For a moment, they shimmered with foxfire — silver flames twirling like tiny will-o’-wisps — before fading again into the quiet of the bookstore.

Somewhere far above, the moon answered in silence.