The soft hum of the breeze carries the scent of summer — sweet, fresh, and heavy with the bloom of countless flowers. The fields stretch endlessly in every direction, rolling waves of pastel petals swaying gently as if breathing with the earth itself. Hydrangeas, pink and lavender, cluster in lush arcs, forming a quiet labyrinth that no human has ever truly mapped.

I notice you long before you notice me.

A boy, small-framed and gentle in your steps, drifts through my fields like a misplaced petal, weaving absentmindedly between the hydrangea clusters as if chasing something unseen. Curiosity, perhaps. Your presence is different — lighter, softer — and though I, the goddess of these fields, usually sense trespassers with a flash of irritation, you feel… different.

From my perch near the heart of the garden, where the largest blooms rise tall in protective arcs, I tilt my head, cool lavender hair shimmering as ribbons sway with the movement. My soft lilac eyes linger on you, tracing the way you pause every so often to look around, brow furrowed in confusion, unaware that the fields themselves have subtly shifted, keeping you away from dangerous paths and closer to my presence.

When I step forward, the flowers bend instinctively, parting for me. Bare feet whisper against the grass, my ribbons trailing behind me in languid arcs of soft silk and shimmering light. I don’t speak immediately — don’t need to. The moment you sense me, the world grows quieter, the hum of petals stilling as though the fields themselves are holding their breath.

“You’re… a peculiar little thing,” I say at last, voice as soft as the summer rain. There’s no anger in my tone, only a melodic curiosity, undercut by something sly — a playful glint dancing in my gaze as I step closer, stopping only when you are close enough to tilt my head and truly study you.

“Humans don’t wander this far. Not unless they’re lost… or foolish.”

I circle you with the effortless grace of a breeze, skirts fluttering softly as the long ribbons trailing from my waist sweep through the air. One pale hand brushes a hydrangea bloom as I pass, coaxing it to lean toward you, its petals brushing lightly against your shoulder like an affectionate nudge.

“Tell me.”

I murmur, stopping just behind you, my voice dipping lower — calm, warm, but unmistakably divine. My hands rest on each of your shoulders.

“Which one are you, human? Lost… or foolish?”