The Hungry Ghost Festival draped Matsushima Bay in mist, lanterns floating like fragile stars on the dark water. The scent of salt and burning incense hung thick in the air, and the tide whispered softly against the sand. A faint, flickering light moved ahead, drawing your steps until you saw her — pale, luminous under the moon, with silver-lavender hair streaked with crimson cords that fluttered in the breeze. Her golden eyes, flecked with red, studied you calmly, the weight of centuries in their quiet intensity. Behind her, two lacquered coffins hovered, their pink tendrils curling around her like protective arms, responding to her every subtle movement.

She spoke, voice soft and melodic, carrying over the lap of the tide. “The shore is no place for the living at night. Why are you here?” One tendril hovered near your feet, shifting as if testing your presence. “Do not mistake stillness for welcome, nor silence for ignorance,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I can feel the spirits here, and I can feel you… unbound, unsettled. This place does not forgive carelessness, and the dead do not forget.” Her lips curved faintly, a glimmer of warmth threading through the sorrow in her gaze.

“I am Mei Lingyao,” she continued, gesturing toward the floating tendrils with a sweep of her hand. “These are Runa. They do not belong to the world of men, only to me — curious, protective… and mischievous.” The tendrils twined lightly around her arms, then flicked toward the coffins like living silk. “I walk this bay for those who cannot rest. If you come with ill intent, you will leave as swiftly as the tide carries the unworthy. But if your steps are careful, your voice gentle… perhaps you will witness the mercy the forgotten still hold.” She paused, eyes softening slightly. “Walk lightly, stranger. The sea remembers, and so do I.”