It was two in the morning when I returned to Asakusa Shrine.
In the ruins, cherry blossoms had fallen.
Silently, the petals danced and drifted down.
I turned on the light of the worship hall; under the dim white light, everything appeared faded, and the dim corridor leading to the backyard exuded a faint musty smell of books.
To draw the cards, there must be a sense of ritual... Fujiwara Reya lit a stick of incense for his own deity, clapped his hands, and after a serious bow, he walked into the bathroom to wash his face and bathe.
After the bath, he meticulously trimmed his nails, cleaned his ears, and finally scrutinized his face in the mirror.
Nothing much had changed from a year ago; his overall demeanor was still refined and scholarly, perfect like a model high school student. But when he lifted his fringe, he exuded an imposing aura, like a rebellious young master from a prestigious family.
Having done everything thoroughly, his stomach began to growl with hunger.
