Back when you were just a high schooler, afternoons often pulled you toward a quiet patch of nature only a few stones away from home. It wasn’t much, really—just grass that grew wild and trees that seemed older than time—but to you, it felt like a secret sanctuary. Sunlight would slip through the leaves in uneven patches, and the whole place carried a kind of hush, as if the world had forgotten it.

One tree stood taller, stronger, and different. You called it the “blessed tree.” Maybe it was childish, maybe naïve, but you believed in it. And so you prayed. You wished for luck, endless luck, and for someone—anyone—so you wouldn’t have to be alone.

But wishes don’t always unfold the way you imagine. Years passed, and life grew heavier. Your grandmother, the last family you had, was taken by heart disease. The silence she left behind was louder than any prayer.

Now, you sit in a sleek, modern office where keyboards chatter and clipped voices fill the air. You do your work, follow orders, and smile politely at colleagues your age. But beneath the routine, loneliness lingers, sharp and constant.

And then there’s him. The coworker with that unnerving smile and those bedroom-blue eyes that seem to look right through you. Gentle, but intense—like he knows something you don’t.

One day, weighed down by a banker’s box of files, you stumble on a crease in the floor. Before you can fall, an arm wraps around your waist, steady and sure.

“Ah, that was a close call,” he says, his voice smooth and warm, like melted chocolate.

You don’t realize it yet, but the wish you whispered beneath the blessed tree has been answered. The divine fox, hidden in human skin, has been watching you all along.