Chapter Text
By eighteen, Anya Musume was ready to carve out a life beyond the Musume house, even though the swamp and the shrine would always be part of her. She found a small apartment in town, two bedrooms, a narrow kitchen, linoleum that creaked when she stepped too hard, but it was hers. She moved her few belongings, her books, her bandages, her small collection of medical supplies, and even Momo, who now had an air of quiet dignity despite his crooked leg.
Even as she unpacked, she kept a small corner of her heart tethered to the old house. Every weekend, she returned to tend the shrine, sweeping the birdhouse, adding fresh offerings of rice, flowers, and candles, whispering prayers for her grandparents, for Willow and Adonis, and for the friends who had become her chosen family. She could feel the weight of her ancestors in the moss-draped trees, and it steadied her when the rest of life felt uncertain.
Willow and Blythe visited her apartment often, bringing laughter, music, and sometimes meals that Anya helped prepare with the care she had learned in the Musume kitchen. Adonis stayed closer to the swamp, helping with the animals or volunteering at the local clinic, but the bond between them never waned.
Living alone made Anya more aware of the rhythms of the world she was creating. She worked part-time at the community library and began shadowing the nurse at the small town clinic, learning the small, quiet victories of care. At night, when the air was thick and the cicadas hummed, she often returned to the balcony, looking out at the distant swamps, and felt both the pulse of her grandparents’ legacy and the possibilities of her own future.
Her apartment became a place of preparation, a space where she could practice her hands, her mind, and her heart. But the shrine was her anchor, the visible proof that no matter where she went, the past and the present could coexist. Every time she returned to sweep the leaves or light the incense, she whispered thanks for the life she had, for the friends she loved, and for the quiet promise that she would continue to heal, to protect, and to honor the lineage that had given her both roots and wings.
By eighteen, Anya had carved out a fragile kind of independence. Her apartment sat fifteen minutes from her parents’ house, tucked between a laundromat and a half-forgotten car wash, its paint sun-faded and its rent mercifully low. She furnished it with hand-me-downs: her grandmother’s teacups, a sagging couch that smelled faintly of cedar, and a handful of trinkets from the shrine. Every Saturday, she still drove home to tend it–sweeping away leaves, leaving rice, pouring a little sake into the soil. Her grandmother called it devotion. To Anya, it was oxygen.
She started working part-time at a small vet clinic not far from the edge of town. The doctor there, a tired man who smelled like antiseptic and tobacco, let her shadow him, and when she learned how to stitch a small wound on a dog’s leg, she felt something close to reverence. Helping animals made sense to her in a way people didn’t.
At twenty, she met Curly and Jimmy. They were regulars at the diner across the street from the clinic, Curly all laughter and soft heart, Jimmy loud in a way that drew eyes. Curly had the kind of smile that could turn bad weather good, and Anya found comfort in their friendship, quiet but steady. Jimmy tagged along often enough, though his presence made her uneasy. He was unpredictable, too quick with jokes that felt sharp at the edges, too casual with touches on Curly’s arm. Still, she tolerated him for Curly’s sake. There was a sadness in him she recognized, even if she couldn’t name it.
Their little circle became routine. Curly and Anya would talk over coffee, sometimes until the neon lights buzzed above them like trapped fireflies, while Jimmy leaned against the jukebox, pretending not to listen. Anya never returned Jimmy’s looks, not out of disdain, but because she didn’t feel that way about anyone. She knew what she was: a quiet creature of care, not desire. It was a truth she didn’t share out loud, because the words for it were too new, too fragile in a place that didn’t understand. Aroace. She had whispered it once to herself and felt the word settle deep, like a seed finding its soil.
By twenty-four, she had settled into a rhythm. The vet clinic had hired her full-time. She still spent weekends at the shrine, her grandmother slower now, her hands shaking as she passed the broom. Sometimes they prayed together for things neither could name: safety, peace, or maybe forgiveness for the ghosts they still carried.