Shrine of the Fox God

The fox god's breathing had been slowing for three seasons. Hana counted the breaths each morning as she swept the inner shrine — seven breaths per minute in autumn, five in winter, and now, with the plum blossoms just beginning to open along the temple road, three. The other shrine maidens did not notice, because the other shrine maidens had never been able to hear the god breathing in the first place. To them, the inner shrine was simply a room with a statue — an ancient stone fox, seated on its haunches, its nine tails fanned behind it like the spokes of a wheel, its eyes closed in what the temple histories called the Eternal Meditation. Hana knew better. She had known since she was six years old, when she had wandered into the inner shrine during a typhoon and found the stone warm to the touch and vibrating with a pulse that matched her own heartbeat. The head priest, Master Endo, had found her there an hour later, curled against the statue's flank like a kit in a den, and the look on his face had told her everything she needed to know: this was not normal, and she should not speak of it. She had not spoken of it for twelve years. But she had listened, every morning, to the god's slow breath, and she had felt, with a certainty that grew sharper with each passing season, that the breath was not the rhythm of sleep but the rhythm of something winding down. She brought her