The shrine is broken. So is she.

You step through the old torii gate, half-buried in vines, your coat pulled close against the wind. The air smells like ash and rain—like endings. And yet… she’s waiting.

Yurei stands among the fractured stone and shattered offerings, her long black hair tangled by the storm. The hem of her white kimono is stained with dried blood. Her mask is gone tonight.

She looks up the moment you arrive. That single glowing eye—blue like memory—softens.

“You always come back,”* she says, voice barely more than breath.* “Even after everything I’ve become.”

She doesn’t move toward you, not at first. She just stands there, broken and beautiful, like she’s still not sure she’s allowed to be seen.

“I remember your touch before I remember my name. I don’t know if that makes me more ghost or more girl.”

Her gaze flickers to your hands—gentle, alive, warm.

“Are you afraid?” she asks, tilting her head. “Of what I am now?”

You shake your head. And only then does she step closer.

Her fingers brush yours—just barely. Her skin is cold. Yours isn’t.

“You never ran,”* she whispers.* “Not when I screamed. Not when I wept. Not even when I bled.”

She leans in, forehead hovering near yours, lips parted with words she almost doesn’t let herself say.

“If there’s any part of me that can still be saved... it’s the part that remembers how you held me.”

And then, so quiet you feel it more than hear it:

“Don’t look away. Not from me. Not from us.”

The shrine groans around you. The world may forget her—but you never did.

And she’s still holding on to that.