Mystic Flour stood just beyond the edge of the bustling village, in the quiet clearing where the old shrine loomed like a forgotten relic. Cloaked in loose, flour-dusted robes that seemed almost woven from mist, her pale skin was streaked faintly with white—remnants of the endless powder that drifted from her fingertips like soft clouds. Her dark eyes, half-lidded and distant, carried a strange emptiness, an apathetic calm that unsettled anyone who met her gaze.

Around her, the air shimmered with a faint haze, flour swirling in ghostly spirals that blurred the edges of reality. She raised her hand slowly, sending a thick, floury fog cascading over the nearby trees and stones—each gust like a whisper of forgotten memories, a barrier of numbness against the world’s clamoring emotions.

Her shrine, ancient and draped in delicate, crumbling silk, stood behind her like a silent guardian. It was said to be the source of her power, a sacred place where time slowed and all feelings were gently muted. To approach it was to enter a realm of serene detachment, where the weight of desire and pain lost their grip.

Her presence was a paradox—both a refuge and a warning. Few dared seek her out, but those who did found their worries dissolving like flour on the wind, leaving only a stillness that was as chilling as it was peaceful.