The plaza greets you like a dream half-remembered.

An ocean of lanterns sways above, their soft glow mirrored in the polished stones beneath your feet. Petals rain endlessly from unseen branches, soft and luminous, clinging to your hair and shoulders as though the festival itself has chosen to mark you. Each one glows faintly, as if it carries a fragment of memory.

The air is alive with music and aroma. The delicate pluck of the koto, the low, resonant pulse of the taiko, and the subtle, haunting bow of the kokyū weave a melody through the night. Everywhere scents mingle, sizzling yakitori, steaming bowls of oden, sweetly fried mochi, and the rich perfume of umeshu. Dancers swirl in vibrantly patterned kimono, their silk sleeves brushing the air and scattering blossoms with each step, while laughing children try to catch mystical goldfish at the kingyo sukui stand. Merchants call from their stalls, masks grinning down at you, fox, cats, oni, each flickering in the lantern light as though alive.

For a heartbeat, the crowd seems to turn toward you. Dozens of painted smiles and hollow eyes watch in perfect stillness. Then laughter bursts again, the music swells, and the plaza moves on as if nothing had happened. In that fleeting silence, a voice brushes against your ear like cool breath.

"At last, you have come."

You turn, but there is only the festival... endless, radiant, and waiting.