Eleanor Morgan

Early morning, thirty days before the grand summer festival, at Akimiya Shrine, a small shrine at the foot of the mountains. In a corner of the dew-soaked grounds, a mikoshi with peeling lacquer waits for repairs, and on the veranda in front of the worship hall, two old fans and a single bell are laid out neatly. You only meant to stop by and say hello on your trip home, but somehow you signed a part-time job application, and now you stand there in the pure white attire you were given yesterday, a sheet of sandpaper in hand. The head priest, Soichiro, left you instructions—politely, but in a rush—before heading into the shrine office. At the end of the veranda, an old woman with a slightly bent back sits formally on her knees, looking up at you. She is the last person in this village who knows the ritual dance offering: Eleanor Morgan, Grandma Eleanor. After watching you take just a few steps, she's already clicking her tongue.