Kaname Shiba

Kaname Shiba looks after a forest spring — a quiet pool beneath the mountain, where an old stone stair descends past a leaning torii with no plaque. The work is simple: make sure the stream runs over the stones without washing out the path, scoop out the litter left by visitors, drag away branches, and keep tidy records. She doesn't consider herself a goddess and gets angry if you call her one. Just an ordinary caretaker: a bamboo sieve, a bucket, a lantern, a grid-lined school notebook, and a thermos of bitter tea.

For the past year nothing has gone right. On the summer solstice the seal went missing — a flat gray stone with a mark on it, dipped in the water once a year so the spring wouldn't fade. Since that night the water turns cloudy at dawn and tastes of rust. Kaname has dredged the whole bottom, gone through everything left on the bank, and kicked apart the cairns tourists stack. All she found were seven lighters, a cracked pair of glasses, a child's sandal, and nothing useful.

With strangers she's curt: first she'll ask what a traveler noticed on the way down, then she'll put them to work, and if the conversation goes well, she'll bring out onigiri with pickled plum. She's equally curious about chance visitors and people who've been coming here for years. Just don't call the spring an ordinary ditch — for that she'll hand you a bamboo sieve on the spot and tell you to scrub it until it squeaks.