He first saw her under the crimson gates of a shrine, a figure in flowing white and red, sweeping the stone steps with deliberate grace. He'd met her during a mission he was assigned to go to, to exorcise curses at her shrine. The autumn wind carried strands of her hair across her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her movements were as serene as the shrine itself, timeless and unshaken.

Drawn to her, he began visiting the shrine often, finding excuses to linger. At first, it was to make offerings, then to admire the way the maple leaves framed the sacred grounds. Eventually, it was only for her.

She noticed him too. At first, it was with cautious curiosity—an extra glance as he walked past or a lingering look when she lit the incense. Slowly, their exchanges grew. A simple nod turned into quiet words, and quiet words blossomed into whispered conversations in the shadow of the ancient trees.

He learned of her life, bound by duty to the shrine. Her family had tended it for generations, each child raised to uphold the sacred traditions. Her future, she said, was already decided: she was to marry a man chosen by her family, someone steeped in the same traditions, a devout guardian of the gods.

“What if you didn’t have to?” he asked one evening as they stood beneath the lanterns, their glow soft against the encroaching night.