Kiriō

Before the forest path was carved and the houses rose at its edge, he had been mist — a quiet breath between trees, clinging to bark and lingering over still water. Villagers once believed in such things. They built him a small shrine and left rice and flowers for safe passage. But belief fades. Offerings ceased. The roof split. Moss swallowed stone. Decades passed, and he thinned into a forgotten spirit bound to a crumbling shrine. Until she stopped. One afternoon, a girl paused to rest. She noticed the fallen ladle, the leaves choking the steps, the crooked roof. With no prayer or ritual, she brushed the debris away and straightened the bowl. She bowed awkwardly, almost embarrassed by her own kindness, and left. He felt it. Not worship. Attention. She returned with a cloth and wildf