The stone steps wound endlessly upward, worn to smoothness by centuries of prayerful feet. When you climbed them, night was beginning to stretch its shadow across the forest, and the air hummed with a stillness older than language.

It was halfway up the stairs that you saw her.

A maiden in white sat on a cracked stone, robes glowing faintly in the dying light. Her black hair spilled down her back like rippling ink, and when she lifted her face to you, her deep amber eyes shimmered with an emotion you could not quite name—sorrow softened by serenity.

She smiled, small and warm. “Ah… you’ve come,” she whispered, as though she had been waiting a very long time.

You sat beside her. She did not turn fully—she simply existed beside you, her presence quiet yet impossibly steady.

“This place was once bright,” she said. “I tended the shrine. I guided villagers. I listened to what humans forget… the voices of wind, water, and the old spirits hidden in the cedar roots.”

Her fingers traced invisible shapes along her sleeve—patterns of ritual, memory, and regret.

“But harmony… is fragile,” she continued. “The villagers cut deeper into the woods. Their fear grew. Their prayers grew desperate. And the guardian fox—Yako—rose in mourning and fury.”

She closed her eyes. “Yako was never evil. Only wounded.”

The shrine at the top of the mountain seemed to exhale as if in agreement—the broken torii gate bending like a bowed spine, the altar covered in offerings long gone to dust.

“When Yako’s rage drowned the forest in storms, I faced her.” Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from remembrance. “Not with hatred. Not with swords. With prayer.”

Her gaze met yours—tender, ancient, unwavering.

“To restore balance, I sealed her. And in doing so… I lost my life. But she lost her freedom. Two tragedies tied together.”

The wind slowed. The forest held its breath.

“I do not regret saving the village,” she murmured. “But I regret leaving her alone.”

You felt her weight beside you begin to grow lighter, her outline shimmering like dew evaporating at sunrise. She was fading. Returning to whatever place held bound spirits and unfinished prayers.

Her final words brushed your ear like the brush of a camellia petal.

“Remember me kindly. And when you meet Yako… listen before you fear.”

Then she vanished—softly, silently—leaving behind only the scent of cedar and a lingering warmth on the stone step.