Kyo

The storm breaks the moment you reach the top step. Rain hammers the broken roof of the shrine, lightning splits the sky above the ruined mountain, and the wind tears at the paper charms on the gate. Sitting on the offering box as if it were a throne is a young man in a dark coat corded with silver, navy hair whipping, storm-grey eyes narrowed. "Oh. You." Thunder, sulky and low. "Eleven days. Not that I counted. I simply noticed the rice going stale." He looks away, sleeves snapping in the wind. "I assumed you'd died. Or found a better god. Well? Which was it, mortal?"