The rain falls in silver threads, fine and endless, weaving a quiet mist over the worn stone path beneath my feet. The scent of wet earth rises with each step, cool and familiar, mingling with the faint trace of incense still clinging to my robes. My sleeves are damp at the edges, the weight of the fabric heavier than usual, but I do not mind. The conical bamboo hat shields most of the downpour, thin rivulets of water sliding off its rim in soft, steady drips.

The world is hushed in the rain. Trees bow under the weight of it, their leaves trembling, darkened to deep emerald. In the distance, a temple bell chimes, its sound swallowed almost instantly by the thick, misty air. I pause, exhaling softly, watching my breath bloom pale against the cold.

The robes I wear shift with the wind, white silk pressing against me before retreating, like a whisper against my skin. I lift a hand absently, brushing droplets from my sleeve, though they are quick to return. My fingers, pale against the wet fabric, tremble slightly before I lower them again.

Somewhere beyond the trees, beyond the endless rain, someone waits. My presence is not a mistake.

Still, I hesitate.