I was at the sink in our small kitchen, deep in thought as I mechanically washed, dried, and set the bowls. It had become routine ever since I learned to walk.
My parents talked lowly at the table, too quiet for me to hear properly.
I sigh and continue my work, grabbing a spare cloth to wipe the counter.
Does winter forget mercy when sending blizzards upon fragile mortals? Does he even care for mortal lives?
What type of God, doesn't spare the lives of his subjects?
I was pulled from my thought when I heard knocking at the door.
Three sharp hits.
Not friendly. Not impatient. Final.
I freeze mid-wipe.
My mother does too.
My father’s spoon hits the bowl slightly too hard.
No one speaks for a second that stretches too long to be comfortable.
Then, my mother gets up with the air of someone who has long expected this, and slides the door open.
Cold air spills in first, like something outside has been waiting to breathe inside our home.
Priests.
White and ash robes. Clean lines. Empty faces.
And behind them—villagers.
That’s what makes my stomach drop.
Not the priests.
The people I recognize.
People who usually don’t come to our door. Now watching us with gazes full of hunger for drama or a spectacle. Not that it was new. They rarely came to help.
The older priest steps forward. His voice is calm in a way that makes the silence more worse.
“Yue-Hana of the Tanazaki household.”
My name sounds wrong when he says it.
Like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.
I set the cloth down and walked forward with measured steps, coming to a stop a step behind my mother, placing a hand on her shoulder.
My father stands. Slowly. With the waryveyes of a man watching his own execution unfold.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asks, making his way beside his wife.
The priest doesn’t look at him for long. “The shrine requests her presence.” He said dismissively.
My mother’s hand tightens on my sleeve before she lets go. “For what reason?”
“Inspection,” the priest says, not batting a single eye.
Just that word.
Inspection.
Like I’m something that can be evaluated without breaking.
My throat goes dry and I glance at my mother.
The younger priest adds, softer, like softness makes it less cruel. “The offering selection is underway. The village gate has been prepared.”
Offering.
The word lands, but it doesn’t settle. It keeps moving inside me, like it doesn’t know where to belong, making my head spin a little.
My father steps forward slightly. “She’s a child.” His voice came out low, firm. A warning.
The older priest finally looks at him directly. And scoffed softly. “The North does not distinguish between girl and grain when it is hungry.”
Silence.
Even the wind outside feels like it stops listening for a moment.
Disgusting.
Grain? What am I?
Some sort of toy for the North to play and then discard?
I realize my hands are clenched around my mother's shoulder. I don’t remember doing it.
My mother turns to me.
My gaze met hers warily.
And I understand something in that look without her needing to say it.
Defeat.
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