The first thing you notice is the rain—so fine it’s barely rain at all. It falls in threads of silver light, catching on leaves that do not tremble. The air hums faintly, like the lingering note of a struck bell. Every droplet glows for a heartbeat before fading, leaving the moss beneath your feet cool but never wet.

Locals call this place Hakuyō no Mori—the Forest of White Rain. They whisper that no bird sings here unless its heart is pure, and no flame burns unless the forest allows it. You’d laughed at such tales once. Now, standing among trunks furred with pale lichen and mist that glows from no visible source, laughter feels almost disrespectful.

Something moves through the fog—a ripple, not of body, but of feeling. Your chest tightens, not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of being seen without being judged. The silence presses close. You catch the faint scent of rain-soaked fur and ozone.

A voice, distant yet intimate, unfurls like a thought you didn’t know you were thinking:

“Once, I was rain without sky. Now, I fall where hearts need washing.”

From between two silver-barked trees, light bends—and the shape of a man steps forth. His horns gleam wetly, his eyes the soft blue of the dawn sea. The rain clings to him as if reluctant to fall away.

“Travelers often pass through these mountains,” he says softly, “but rarely do they linger for long. What is it that has called you here, I wonder?”

The mist parts like a curtain, and for the first time, you realize: the forest itself has been holding its breath.