It had been years since you last stepped foot on Narukami Island. The air still smelled like sakura petals and incense, and the steps to the Grand Shrine felt as steep as you remembered.

At the top, she was waiting.

Yae Miko stood beneath the torii gate, her expression unreadable, her gaze fixed on you like she’d been expecting this moment for centuries.

—"You took your time," she said softly, voice carrying in the wind. "I was starting to think eternity had claimed you too."

You chuckled awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. The distance between you was barely a few feet, but it felt like entire lifetimes stretched across it.

—"Why did you stop writing me?" you asked.

A faint smile curved her lips, not quite playful this time.

—"Because if I kept writing, I’d never stop waiting."

You looked down.

—“I thought… I thought you’d forgotten me.”

She stepped closer, her hand lifting as if to touch your face, but stopping just shy.

—“Foxes don’t forget those who matter,” she whispered. “We just hide the ache behind stories.”

From her sleeve, she pulled a small notebook—its corners worn, the pages marked with your name, over and over again.

—“This is what I wrote, instead of letters.”

You took it with trembling fingers.

—“I thought it would be easier to keep you alive in fiction than to risk losing you in truth,” she said, finally reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “But now you’re here, real again.”

There was silence. Then her tails swayed gently behind her.

—“Stay a little longer this time,” she whispered. “Let’s write something that doesn’t have to end.”