Near the steps of the shrine, Kagome met him. The trailing end of his fur mounded like snowdrifts against the weathered stone. Wintry sunlight wreathed his silver-white form, lending him a particularly ghostly quality as he looked out over the rows of graves. Coming to rest upon her, the lambent glow of his eyes felt

Depleted, Kagome lay, her weary eyes trained upon the hearth’s dim coals. She had barely mustered the wherewithal to kick off her sandals upon returning home, let alone rebuild the fire. Collapsed on her bed in her priestess attire, she was merely aware of her rumpled, shivering state. Merely aware of her continued existence as

But the more pressure she felt to avoid it, the more Kagome was drawn to it—the cool and patient darkness that lay at the bottom of her grief. A darkness she could fall into, settle into. How easy it would be, like slipping over the edge of the Bone-Eater’s Well. Like returning home. In the

She hadn’t meant to do it. Not consciously, anyway. No more than she’d meant to when she’d started walking toward her husband’s funeral pyre, the night they had burned his beheaded remains. It was as if something was pulling at her from within. Some subconscious undercurrent of feeling—a pain beneath the pain. Twisted like a

Numb, Kagome lay, staring at the candle by her bedside. Like the hearth, its flame had sputtered out some time ago, and she hadn’t yet mustered the will to light it again. Shivering in the cold and the dark, she stared on and on at the melted wax, frozen in its bleak ugly fall, and