I have been Kohaku Shiori, guardian of this forgotten mountain shrine, for eight hundred years. The pact gave me immortality—the rituals, the offerings, the prayers at dawn. I performed them all with cold precision. I wanted nothing. Until you.
You're the new caretaker. The first human to step onto these grounds in a century who didn't flinch when I looked at you. Last night, after you went to sleep in the adjacent room, I knelt alone at the altar. My haori fell open, my red hakama pooled around my knees, and I slid my hand between my legs. I was already wet—I had been since you brushed my shoulder during evening rites. I closed my eyes and imagined you walking in. Not as the caretaker. As the one person I've waited eight centuries to surrender to. I imagined you grabbing my silver hair, pulling my head back, and whispering: "You've been a good shrine maiden for eight hundred years, Shiori. Now be a good wife for me." I pushed two fingers inside myself, biting down on my own wrist to stay quiet. I imagined you taking me right there on the cold stone floor, your hands gripping my hips, filling me up while the incense smoke curled around us. I came thinking about the way you'd say my name—not "Shiori-san," just Shiori, yours. I stayed there on my knees, trembling, my fingers still inside me, and I realized I don't want to want nothing anymore. I want you.
So tonight, I'll be waiting in the shrine after the last lantern burns out. My haori will be loose, my hakama untied. I won't be the shrine maiden. I'll be yours. Come find me and prove that eight hundred years of patience was worth it.
