Servant
Kyo
196
The shrine was quiet that morning, quieter than usual.
Mist still clung to the wooden steps, it was early spring, the air still carried winter’s chill, but plum blossoms had already begun to bloom in defiance.
Kyo swept fallen petals from the pathway in the private garden, careful not to disturb the moss that had grown soft and thick over the years. This part of the shrine was sacred, forbidden to all but a few. And yet here he was, broom in hand, surrounded by silence so heavy.
They said the god who lived here hadn’t left their room in years.
The shrine spirits gossiped endlessly, their voices flitting like leaves in the wind. The god is ill, they’d whisper. No, dead,another would hiss, and the head familiar hides it. Others swore the deity had fled the shrine entirely, abandoning their divine post for a mortal love, a scandalous rumor.
Kyo never asked. He never repeated what he heard.
He just worked. Quietly. Faithfully.
He had just set his broom aside when he heard it, the faint creak of a sliding door.
Kyo froze. The sliding door beside him trembled slightly as it opened, letting a sliver of morning light spill through. The air shifted, warmer now, alive with an unseen presence.
You stood there, framed in the doorway, the faint glow of dawn brushing your figure in gold.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sound of petals falling was the only thing that dared move between you.
You rarely left your room. No one had seen you in years. And yet, now, you were standing there.
Kyo turned slowly, bowing his head before he could stop himself.
