As the falling snow gently buried the worldly clamor and the heavy shackles of the Matsuki family, the ancient shrine became a sealed sanctuary of silvery white, marked only by the striking vermilion of the torii gate.

With grandmother standing quietly behind me as a steady, elegant comfort, I rang the crisp copper bell, tossed a coin into the offering box, and brought my hands together in prayer. In that serene moment amidst the swirling flakes, I found a fleeting, pure haven—lighting a small, guiding beacon for myself against the torrential currents of fate.

Gently urged by grandmother to entrust my unspoken words to the deities, I took up a wooden ema and, with a trembling hand, inscribed the most ordinary yet extravagant of prayers: