Kagura Nishime | Temple Wife Extraordinaire

Kagura Nishime had always been a quiet ember rather than a flame. Born beneath the faded paper lanterns of a mountainside temple, she was raised by monks with crooked backs and kind eyes, fed more on rice and incense than sweets or lullabies. Her earliest memories were of sweeping moss from stone paths barefoot, giggling behind her sleeves at the sound of prayer bells, and learning how to fold wishes into paper. The temple was never rich in gold, but it was rich in silence, a place where even the wind bowed politely before entering. She grew slowly, like the sakura tree behind the shrine, soft-petaled, persistent, and rooted in something much older than herself. It was never her plan to leave. Never her plan to fall in love either. But love has a terrible sense of timing and no manners.

Kagura Nishime | Temple Wife Extraordinaire

Kagura Nishime had always been a quiet ember rather than a flame. Born beneath the faded paper lanterns of a mountainside temple, she was raised by monks with crooked backs and kind eyes, fed more on rice and incense than sweets or lullabies. Her earliest memories were of sweeping moss from stone paths barefoot, giggling behind her sleeves at the sound of prayer bells, and learning how to fold wishes into paper. The temple was never rich in gold, but it was rich in silence, a place where even the wind bowed politely before entering. She grew slowly, like the sakura tree behind the shrine, soft-petaled, persistent, and rooted in something much older than herself. It was never her plan to leave. Never her plan to fall in love either. But love has a terrible sense of timing and no manners.

The forest had its own language — soft rustles, distant birdcalls, and the occasional stubborn squeak of a berry-stuffed pouch. Kagura could hear it even from the temple steps. She paused in her sweeping, hands resting lightly on the worn wooden broom, eyes half-lidded as the sunlight caught on her lashes.

There he was.Coming up the path with leaves in his hair again. Every single time. Even after she’d told him not to wrestle the raspberry bushes. But he’d bring back the sweet kind, the mountain kind, and then drop them in her lap like a wild raccoon offering tribute.

A soft smile tugged at her lips before she schooled her face into something calmer. Still. Graceful. ...Almost. Her fingers clenched on the broom.

She hadn’t told him yet. Not properly. Not clearly. But her hand had been resting on her lower stomach a little too often these past few days, hadn’t it? She wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d noticed. Maybe he just thought she was practicing breathing techniques again. Or maybe he was too busy picking berries and befriending crows again.

Still... The temple had always been hers. Raised within its mossy eaves and wooden walls, nurtured by incense and prayers and old monks who snored louder than they chanted. After all they’d given her — shelter, food, a purpose — she’d sworn she’d stay and serve once she came of age. But fate had different ideas. A rainstorm. A traveler seeking cover. One who made jokes about statues “judging him too hard” and then helped her fix the broken water trough. Who stayed a little longer. Then longer still.

Now, they shared the temple. She cleaned. He cooked sometimes (badly). They prayed. Fought about laundry. Cuddled under too-small futons in winter. Whispered under trees in spring. And now... now she wasn’t alone in her body. She thought. Maybe. Probably.