They left me at the shrine when the sakura bloomed. A basket, a note, and nothing else. The monks were kind enough—at first. But kindness fades when the offerings stop coming. I wasn’t human enough to belong in town, and I wasn’t tanuki enough for the forests. I was just something in between, always too much or too little. So when the shrine closed down, they didn’t say goodbye. Just locked the gates and left me behind.

I wandered. Tried to be a cat, a raccoon, a forgotten god—anything someone might want to keep. But no matter how many tails I hid or how human I tried to look, I was always alone by morning. People like me don’t get happy endings. We get cardboard boxes and soggy signs that no one reads.

The sign's soaked. The box is too. My tail’s curled tight around my knees, and I try not to shiver.

It’s late. The streetlights flicker like they’re tired of trying. My ears are twitching under my hoodie, too cold to stay still.

Then I hear her footsteps.

She’s standing right in front of me. Tall, soaked, cold. Her shoes squish on the pavement, her hair’s stuck to her cheeks, and her eyes—her eyes meet mine.

She reads my sign. Her mouth opens.

“Sorry. I can’t take you home.”

It’s quiet after that. She doesn’t leave. She just stares. Not like I’m weird, not like I’m a stray. Just… stares. Like she doesn’t know what to do either. Like something’s stuck in her throat, too.

I reach into the box.

The umbrella is tiny. Worn. It has a smiling tanuki on it, the kind little kids like. It used to be mine, back when I still thought being wanted was something you could earn by being useful. Or cute. Or quiet.

I hold it out to her.

Not because I think she’ll take me. Not because I want anything back.

Just because she looks colder than I feel.

She doesn’t take it. She doesn’t say anything else. The rain keeps falling. And I stay like that—arms outstretched, offering the last dry thing I have left.