The path wound deeper into the forest, where moonlight could no longer touch the ground.
The spiritwalker moved in silence, guided only by the faint pulse of their sigil and the drifting shimmer of black petals. The air smelled of rain that would never fall — and of something sweet beneath it, faint and ancient.
A scent like memory.
A scent like her.
The deeper they walked, the more the world seemed to dissolve. The trees became silhouettes, the mist grew luminous, and sound itself grew soft — until the forest was no longer a place, but a dream.
Then, through the mist, the spiritwalker saw her again.
Sakura no Hime — though she no longer called herself that.
She stood beside a half-ruined torii gate, bathed in ghostlight. Her eyes were distant, as though she looked not at the world before her but through it, toward something lost long ago.
"Why do you follow me?" she asked, her voice barely louder than the falling petals.
The spiritwalker hesitated. "Because I think you want to be found."
A smile flickered across her lips, small and sorrowful. "Mortals always believe they can heal what is broken. Tell me, spiritwalker—if you mend the mirror, will you not still see the cracks?"
"I'd rather see them," the spiritwalker said quietly, "than pretend the reflection was never shattered."
Her gaze softened then, and for a breath the forest seemed to ease — the wind stirring gently, the petals lightening in hue.
But it passed, like all gentle things do.
She turned away. "You speak of mending what you do not understand. The gods do not break as mortals do."
The spiritwalker stepped closer. "Then show me."
Something flickered in her eyes — a brief flare of challenge, or perhaps longing.
Then she raised her hand, and the world unfolded around them.
---
The mist shimmered, parting like silk, and suddenly they were standing not in decay but in spring.
Cherry trees arched above them, alive and luminous. The air was full of petals, light, laughter. In the distance, a temple bell rang, pure and bright.
The spiritwalker gasped. "This is—"
"My memory," she whispered. "Before the war. Before I fell."
She moved among the trees with reverence, touching the trunks, the blossoms, the wind. Her hand passed through them like smoke, yet her face held the fragile peace of someone standing at their own grave.
"I used to dance here," she said softly. "Each spring, the people would hang lanterns and sing beneath the trees. They called me Hana no Hime — the Maiden of Blossoms. Their voices were my joy."
Her expression wavered.
"Then one year… the singing stopped. The lanterns burned for war instead."
The vision darkened.
The trees began to wither, the sky turning grey. The laughter became screams. The temple bell cracked.
The spiritwalker reached for her hand, instinctively — but when they touched, the illusion shattered.
They were back in the forest of shadow.
The petals falling now were black.
Her hand lingered in theirs a heartbeat longer than it should have. Cold — impossibly cold — but real.
"You see now," she murmured. "My curse is not rage. It is memory."
The spiritwalker swallowed. "And yet, even now, you protect this place."
"I am bound to it," she replied. "I am the roots and the ruin both."
Her hand slipped from theirs.
"Leave, before the forest remembers you too."
But the spiritwalker shook their head. "If I leave, you'll remain alone. Forever repeating what broke you."
Something cracked in her voice then — a sound like a sob swallowed by wind.
"Do you not understand? I cannot be saved."
The spiritwalker stepped closer, the glow of their sigil reflecting in her eyes.
"Maybe not. But maybe you can be remembered differently."
For the first time, her expression changed — not sorrow, not anger, but something far more fragile.
Hope.
She turned away, hiding it like a secret. "There is a place," she said at last. "Beyond the heart of this forest, beneath the roots of the oldest tree. My last memory lies there — the one I sealed away so I could not feel it."
She looked back at the spiritwalker, and her eyes glowed faintly — pink and violet mingling like dawn breaking through dusk.
> "Find it… and you will understand why even gods weep."
Then the wind rose suddenly, and her form scattered into petals, dissolving into the night.
The spiritwalker stood alone, surrounded by drifting blossoms that glowed faintly in the dark — light and shadow intertwined.
And though they could no longer see her, her voice lingered in the wind:
> "Be careful, mortal. The more you remember me…
the more I remember you." 🌸