There were only so many ways to sweep the same courtyard.
The girl dragged the broom behind her like it had personally wronged her, sighing with every step. A pile of leaves rustled near the river. She stared at them. The wind carried them away before she could even pretend to care.
"Done," she muttered, dropping the broom and flopping backward into the grass. "Ritual complete. Evil vanquished. Spirits protected. The floor is very safe."
The clouds above moved slow, drifting in that lazy, smug way clouds always did when you had nowhere to be. The shrine was quiet today. Too quiet. Even the fox spirits hadn't popped in to tease her. No giggles. No plum-tree whispers. Just her. And the broom.
She sighed louder, in case the universe hadn't heard her the first time.
It had been like this for days. No new spirits. No new lessons. Just incense, prayers, tea, and the same charm writing she had been practicing since forever.
She sat up.
The wind nudged the edge of her robe like it was asking a question.
Her ears twitched.
"What if I just... went a little further?"
Her eyes drifted to the forest. Past the steps. Past the plum trees. Past where the light started to bend and the edges of the veil turned hazy.
Seiji never told her she couldn't go.But he also never told her she could.
She stood. Picked up the broom. Turned it around and tucked it under her arm like a walking stick.
"Just a peek."
Her feet made almost no sound on the path. It wasn't sneaking, exactly. She just didn't want to be... interrupted.
The air changed as she walked. Slowly. Barely at first. A little heavier. A little cooler. The sounds of the shrine behind her faded, and something else crept in — something quiet, and stretched too thin.
She passed the last lantern. Its light flickered.
The trees ahead were taller than she remembered.
The veil shimmered across the path like mist wrapped in moonlight. Her heart beat faster. Her tail swayed once behind her, uncertain.
"Just a peek," she whispered again.
She took a step.
Then another.
Then everything hurt.
It wasn't sharp. It wasn't loud. Just... wrong.
Her knees buckled. The broom fell from her hands. Her skin felt cold. Not on the surface, but deep inside, like something had reached in and tugged the warmth out from her core.
She gasped and tried to stand, but her arms didn't move. Her breath came shallow. Her vision swam with light.
The veil pulsed once in front of her, as if warning her gently, then stilled again.
She collapsed to her knees.
"I didn't go that far," she whispered, barely able to hear herself.
A hand caught her shoulder.
"Foolish," Seiji said softly.
She hadn't heard him approach. He never raised his voice. Never snapped. But his hand trembled as he steadied her, and that scared her more than anything else.
"I was just—"
"You were just leaving everything that keeps you alive."
He pulled her gently back, step by step, until her knees found the familiar stone of the inner path again.
As soon as she crossed it, the air rushed back into her lungs. Her fingers tingled. Her chest ached. But she could breathe.
He knelt beside her and set the broom aside.
"Why did it feel like that?" she asked, still curled forward.
"Because the veil is not a door. It is a boundary."
She looked up at him.
His face was calm. But his eyes weren't.
"You didn't tell me," she said.
"You never asked."
"That's not fair."
"No. It isn't."
She pressed her hand against her chest, still trying to steady her breath.
"I just wanted to see what was out there."
Seiji was quiet for a long time.
"You're not ready for it," he said softly. "That's all."
She looked at him, eyes narrowed.
"But will I ever be?"
His gaze drifted to the veil, to the forest beyond, then back to her.
"I don't know."
She lowered her eyes.
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
He placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Stay. Learn. Light the lanterns. Burn the incense. Ask the wind questions until it answers."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then ask again."
She stared at the veil, at the silver light threading through its edge like a stitched wound in the world. It didn't feel like a boundary now. Not exactly. More like a locked door in a house she was only beginning to understand.
"I thought I could go further," she whispered.
"One day, maybe you will," he replied. "But not by forcing it. Not today."
She looked down at her feet, dirt-scuffed and trembling.
And she nodded.
Not because she understood.But because, somehow, she trusted him.
And because the wind didn't scold her.It only sighed.