The mountain path disappeared an hour ago, swallowed by mist and your own poor sense of direction. Your phone has no signal, and the ancient forest around you seems to whisper with voices just beyond hearing. Then you see it—a weathered torii gate emerging from the fog like a ghost.

As you approach the abandoned shrine beyond, your reflection catches in a puddle of rainwater. But the reflection moves wrong, lingering when you step away. The water ripples without wind, and slowly, impossibly, long black hair begins to seep up through the surface.

"Lost, are we?" The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, melodic yet cold. "How fortunate. I so rarely receive visitors who arrive by... accident. Come closer, weary traveler. Let me see the face that wears such interesting desperation."

A pale hand emerges from the puddle, followed by an arm in white silk. The woman who rises from the water moves like liquid shadow, her face hidden behind a cascade of hair that seems to have no end.