The Gods Are Flat-Broke Again

The trees ended abruptly.

We stepped into the Tōhira shrine district.

And it smiled.

Literally.

The archway above us bore a doctrine rune that twitched as we passed beneath it. An automated welcome phrase triggered.

"Hospitality doctrine engaged. You are now protected guests. No hostility may touch you while within shrine boundaries."

Kirin frowned. "That's not standard phrasing."

"No," I said, "it's better. Too good. It sounds like it hired a marketing firm."

The shrine itself was old. Creaking. Decorated in layered murals, repainted too many times. Every brushstroke looked like it was trying to remember the last one's name.

Locals moved in and out of the courtyard with unnatural calm. Children tossed blessing charms like beanbags. A pair of elders drank miracle-infused tea, eyes glowing faintly with divine friendliness.

Too friendly.

Too quiet.

I felt it instantly.

"This place," I muttered, "doesn't want us to leave."

Kirin nodded. "And it won't let anyone else leave, either."

She paused.

Her eyes narrowed.

"...Not even what shouldn't be here."

The shrine smiled at us again.

This time, it meant it.

A gentle chime rang from somewhere above the courtyard archway. Not a bell, not quite a gong—something in-between. A sound tuned for welcoming.

I didn't like it.

"Registering miracle field," I muttered, tapping my badge. "Hospitality-class barrier detected. Defense effect, Category 2. Duration… ongoing."

Kirin didn't respond. Her expression shifted from neutral to statistically unimpressed.

"Miracle boundaries typically expire within 72 hours unless recharged," she said, stepping lightly across the flagstones. "This one has been active for…?"

She trailed off.

I glanced at my badge. Then at the shimmer in the air.

Then back at my badge, which refused to calculate.

"…It's not reading a start date," I said. "It doesn't remember when it began."

Kirin's mouth became a line.

"Then the shrine's doctrine has looped."

She meant it clinically.

I felt it in my teeth.

A doctrine loop wasn't just a glitch. It was a kindness stuck on repeat. A shrine that couldn't stop welcoming. Couldn't stop protecting. Couldn't let go.

Shrine Tōhira wasn't haunted.

It was hospitable in the way a drowning man grips your hand to save himself.

We entered the central hall.

The welcome table bowed to us.

Yes, the table.

Specifically, the scroll sitting on it—a guestbook encoded with doctrinal bindings. It fluttered open. Gave a polite hum. And unfurled several pages with suspicious eagerness.

"Please sign in," it said. "All are welcome. All are safe. All guests are precious."

I pulled out a pen and touched the page.

It recoiled slightly—then accepted the ink.

Kirin did not sign.

The guest log flipped back a page on its own.

Then another.

Then three.

Back further.

And further.

It was showing off now.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of names streamed by.

Blurred entries.

Partial glyphs.

Visitors who had come, stayed, left—except…

None of them were marked departed.

Every single name sat on the log like it was still here.

I touched the first page.

Blank.

No entry.

"Someone's missing," I murmured.

Kirin leaned closer. "The original guest. The origin of the loop."

"Probably the one the miracle is trying to protect," I said.

"Or contain," she said.

And we both went very still.

Because somewhere deeper inside the shrine—

A child began to hum.

The sound drifted.

Familiar and wrong.

The melody was old. Older than hospitality. Older than blessing chants. It didn't rhyme, but it resonated. Like something written before WP.

I knew it.

Not from memory.

We turned the corner.

And there she was.

A girl, maybe ten. Hair too neat. Eyes too calm. Sitting on a mat surrounded by offerings no one could've afforded. She wore no clerical robes. Just a thin white shift and an expression like a parable left unfinished.

She smiled at me.

"Are you here to tuck in the shrine?" she asked.

I blinked.

Kirin spoke first. "Who are you?"

The girl tilted her head.

"I was invited," she said. "I knocked, and the shrine said yes."

"Who taught you that song?" I asked.

Her eyes twitched—barely.

"I didn't learn it," she said. "I just remembered it early."

My badge buzzed.

Kirin's scale twitched.

Something doctrinal just shifted.

A miracle. Soft. Almost apologetic.

The air shimmered. The door behind us clicked shut.

"Reminder: Guests are safest when they do not leave," the shrine whispered.

I turned to Kirin.

Her tone was unchanged. But her fingers had moved—quietly flicking her sleeve open, thumb brushing the edge of a sealed scroll.

We had seconds before the shrine forgot its manners.

"You're not a guest," she whispered.

"No," I said.

"You're a variable."

"Still better than a believer."

She didn't disagree.

The girl looked up again.

"They're going to knock soon," she said quietly.

"Who?"

Her eyes glinted.

"The ones who were never invited."

The shrine chime rang again.

This time, not from inside.

From the gate.

And this time—

it didn't sound welcoming.

_________________________________________

There are some knocks you answer.

And some that were never meant to reach a door.

This was the third kind.

The chime above the gate didn't ring again.

Because it had been unmade.

That's the only way I can describe it. One second it existed. The next, it was an absence with shape.

I stood, badge already half-raised.

"Kirin—"

"I know," she said, stepping forward, scale in hand. "It's happening."

The shrine shivered. Not violently. Politely.

Like it was trying to cough up a guest it didn't remember inviting but couldn't prove had broken the rules.

The air around the girl shimmered.

She hadn't moved. Her fingers were folded in her lap like someone waiting for a bedtime story she already knew the ending to.

"They're not guests," she said softly.

"Then what are they?" I asked.

She didn't look at me.

"Questions," she said. "And they want to be answered."