Ookami-san Wa - Taberaretai

She let him carry her down the mountain, limp and warm in his arms, her nose buried in the crook of his neck. The village children saw them pass and whispered. The old women at the shrine crossed themselves. But Takeda just walked, one hand cradling her head, the other holding the nikujaga pot. That spring, the school principal found Takeda in the staff kitchen, stirring a huge pot of zoni while a silver-haired woman in an oversized sweater sat on the counter, feet dangling, stealing pieces of kamaboko .

“Go away, human,” she whispered. “Winter is my hungry time. I sleep. Maybe I don’t wake up.”

Perhaps both.

She blinked.

He set the box on a flat stone and stepped back. The wind carried the scent of caramelized meat and sesame oil. Ookami-san’s ears swiveled forward. Her nose twitched. Her tail, betraying her utterly, began to wag.

Her tail gave a single, traitorous wag. Then another.

Her ears went scarlet. Her tail thumped against the cabinet. The principal quietly backed out of the room. Ookami-san wa Taberaretai

Takeda set down the pot. Then he did something very foolish. He reached out and touched her ear.

“It’s from the convenience store in the valley,” Takeda said, stepping closer. “The salmon one. I had one for breakfast.”

“Who’s there?” she snarled, baring a canine that was, admittedly, very impressive. She let him carry her down the mountain,

“She’s my wife,” Takeda said calmly, tasting the broth.

Takeda held up his hands. “Just a lost hiker. And… you dropped your rice ball.”