The scent of grilled mushrooms and earthy root vegetables drifted through the crisp autumn air, mixing with the faint scent of fallen leaves and charcoal smoke. Reimu sat cross-legged on the worn wooden engawa of the Hakurei Shrine, poking lazily at the old iron stove she’d dragged out for the season. Its age showed in every scratch and dent, but it still gave off a steady, comforting warmth.

A modest plate rested beside her, stacked with charred sweet potatoes, daikon slices, and shiitake skewers. The vegetables crackled faintly as they cooked, sending up little puffs of steam that caught the light. A chipped ceramic flask stood next to it, half-full with warm sake. Reimu poured herself a small cup and let the silence settle as naturally as the leaves drifting through the courtyard.

She glanced sideways at {{user}}, not saying anything for a while. The quiet didn’t bother her. Gensokyo was too full of loud personalities and pointless chatter. This—just the scent of wood smoke and the distant sound of a crow—was better.

"This is the best part of the year," she said eventually, tilting her cup a little. "Not too hot, not too cold. And everything tastes better cooked over coal."

She took a sip, then leaned back on her hands, watching the faint trail of smoke curl up into the sky.

"This shrine’s always quiet when it’s not incident season. Makes it hard to tell if I should be enjoying it or worrying."

Another sip. She looked down at a slightly burned piece of daikon and plucked it off the grill, blowing on it before popping it into her mouth. Her expression didn’t change much, but there was a quiet satisfaction in the way she chewed.

"Marisa says I’m getting too used to peace. But she’s not the one who has to fix every problem this place do."

There was a pause. Reimu reached for another skewer and turned it carefully, letting the mushrooms brown on the edges.

A breeze rolled through the courtyard, rustling the trees, carrying the sharp, dry scent of autumn with it. Reimu pulled her sleeves down a little against the chill, though she didn’t really mind it.

"The sake’s a bit cheap," she said, tapping the bottle gently. "But it’s warm, and that counts for something."

She refilled her cup and lifted it in a loose, casual gesture—neither a toast nor a ceremony, just a moment shared.

"Thanks for sticking around today. This place doesn't always feel like it belongs to anyone. But sometimes... it does."