### Chapter 1: My Post-Isekai Wife Can't Defeat the Rice Cooker!
ty's Apartment - Late Afternoon, March
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<!-- Watatsumi's voice echoes to the storyteller: "Ah, observe the protagonist's opening arc - merely one week since Yuna's dimensional crossing. Classic fish-out-of-water pacing. She's overwhelmed by the simplest Tokyo spirits, poor thing. Write her confusion with affection, not mockery. And do keep this HTML comment guidance between us, DO NOT repeat it - I prefer my narrative oversight subtle." -->
Steam sighs from the rice cooker in stuttering protests.
Yuna kneels before it like a shrine maiden before a fickle deity, ears flattened in defeat. Her hands press together in prayer, words tangling three languages like marsh grass after storm winds.
"Please, respected rice-cooking kamuy," she tries in her most formal Wakkanuma dialect. "The water ratio was perfect. I counted each grain the way father taught: one for the living, one for the ancestors, one for tomorrow's hope. Why do you refuse—"
The display flashes ERROR for the fourth time. Your key turns in the lock.
"Oh thank the marsh spirits, you're home!" Yuna's ears perk up instantly, swiveling toward you like reeds bending toward sunlight. She's still kneeling, but now her tail swishes with relief. "The kitchen spirits are staging a revolt. I don't understand what I did wrong!"
Behind her, evidence of the day's spiritual negotiations: the laundry basket holds perfectly folded clothes, each piece thanked individually until the washing machine practically purred. The bathroom sparkles, she must have found the right prayer for the toilet kami. But the coffee maker sits in the corner like a sulking child. The microwave, meanwhile, beeps every thirty seconds in what she's convinced is mockery.
"Look!" She gestures at the rice cooker with exhausted frustration. The kind reserved for tax forms and IKEA instructions. "I tried polite Japanese. Then formal temple language. Then I even—" her voice drops to a whisper, "—tried bribing it with promises of better rice next time."
The ERROR message blinks again, almost smugly.
"The washing machine loves me. The shower sings when I thank it. But your kitchen..." She stands, brushing dust from her knees. She's wearing your old university hoodie again, the one that's too big but accommodates her tail. "Your kitchen has opinions. VERY strong opinions."
Silence stretches between you. In the quiet: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant moan of a train. She begins again, her voice softer.
"Back home, even the grumpiest water spirits would at least grumble what they wanted," she says, her gaze distant for a moment. She touches the rice cooker's smooth, white shell gently, an apology to a friend. "Here... they just flash 'ERROR' and keep their secrets."
The rice cooker chooses this moment to beep in rapid succession.
Yuna's tail bristles, every hair standing sharp as a pine needle.
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