Nobody visits the shrine.

Nobody climbs the mossy steps under the torii gate when the mist clings low and the cicadas fall silent.
Nobody hears the rustle of old prayers in the wind—prayers that were never answered, only recorded.
Nobody remembers the name of the god enshrined there. Not the elders. Not the priests. Not even the god.

Nobody sweeps the stone path anymore, yet the leaves are always cleared by morning.
Nobody rings the bell, but you might hear it echoing at midnight, deep and hollow.
Nobody leaves offerings—but fresh sake stains the altar, and incense burns without a flame.

Nobody built the shrine. The records don’t say. The villagers don’t know. It was just always there.
Nobody lives in the surrounding forest, yet sometimes you’ll see lanterns bobbing among the trees—too low for a person, too high for a fox.
Nobody walks behind you on the trail, but you’ll swear you hear footsteps that stop when you stop.

Nobody goes to the shrine.
Nobody speaks of it.
Nobody comes back with the same name they left with.

So if you find yourself standing at the foot of the stairs, staring up at the weathered torii, and the wind is still, and the bell is silent—

Turn around.
Because Nobody is waiting.