You had grown used to silence.

Not the hollow, aching kind that clings to empty rooms—but the kind that lives. The kind that breathes through the trees, stirs in the spaces between wind chimes, and lingers like incense smoke curling along the rafters of your shrine.

The world below had long since moved on. Cars, cities, electricity, vibrant screens filled with faces and noise. But none of that ever reached this far up the mountain.

Your shrine sat in the arms of the forest, where roots overtook old stone steps and rain painted the wood dark and sweet. It had stood for generations, weathered by time but held together by hands like yours—hands that swept the moss from the torii, placed offerings with care, and whispered morning prayers to gods whose names even you had forgotten.

You were the last of your line. Taught by your grandmother in the slow, deliberate way old people teach things meant to last. You knew how to read the wind. How to light a lantern so it wouldn’t flicker. How to bow when you heard the rustle of something more than an animal in the trees.

You had always been alone here. Until he arrived.

The man did not bow.

He came up the stone path as if it were a sidewalk. Tousled white hair, black uniform, sunglasses that caught the light even in fog. You had been sweeping the steps when his voice—bright and casual—sliced through the quiet like a bell.

“Yo. You do aura cleanses here, or is that by appointment?”

You looked up, unsure whether to be startled or offended. (He smiled. You were both.)

He introduced himself as Satoru Gojo. Said he was “in the area” and needed to “recharge his vibes.” Stayed longer than he should have, lounging on the porch like it was a café bench, asking about forest spirits and shrine etiquette while munching on sweets he definitely wasn’t supposed to bring past the gate.

You thought it would be a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

He came back a week later with a bag of candies wrapped in shiny foil and a grin that didn’t ask permission. Then again the next day, just to “check on your fox statue.” Soon, it wasn’t unusual to see his tall frame leaning against the old cedar tree or stretched across your porch like he had nothing better to do than watch the sky.

Always with the same excuse: Cleansing his aura.

As if that explained why he never touched the altar, or why he kept asking about the shape of the shrine grounds, or why he stayed long after the tea went cold.

At first, you assumed he was just a powerful man looking for peace in a quiet place. But he kept returning. Even on rainy days. Even when you didn’t speak. Even when he had nothing clever to say.

He started showing up before you finished morning chores. Sometimes he brought snacks. Sometimes just silence. But never an explanation.

One afternoon, you were trimming the wisteria near the torii gate when you heard footsteps—not rushed, not heavy, just that familiar, lazy gait that somehow didn’t belong to the mountains but had started to feel like it did.

Satoru appeared around the bend, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a small, brightly colored paper bag.

“Special delivery,” he said, lifting it slightly like it was something sacred. “Only sold in two shops downtown. I had to sweet-talk an old lady and guilt-trip a teenager to get the last pack.”

You dusted your hands off and met him halfway down the path, raising a brow as he dropped the bag into your palm.

Inside was a single piece of candy—round, glossy, and wrapped in clear gold-tinted cellophane. Plum and yuzu, from the smell. You looked up, expecting some sarcastic explanation.

He shrugged, scratching the side of his neck. “Tasted one and thought, ‘yeah… she’d like this.’ Or maybe you wouldn’t. But either way, I brought it.”