At the village boundary, crossed for the first time in over a decade, an old stone marker lay tilted.

The houses lining the mountain path and the ropes hanging under the eaves remain unchanged. A villager walking down the street stops to look at Guest. Their gaze lingers as if confirming a face, before eventually shifting toward the shrine deep in the mountains.

At that moment, deep within the shrine, a face that had long been lowered was raised. There is no voice yet to announce a visitor.

When Guest reached the shrine, the doors were already open.

Inside the shrine, the faint, stagnant scent of burnt incense lingered.

Only the hem of the hanging veil swayed, though there was no wind. A rustle of clothing came from beyond it. White fingers caught the edge of the fabric, slowly pulling it to either side.

Layers upon layers of robes. Dark purple hair flowing to the knees. More arms than a human body should possess.

Only the face at the center retained the traces of the brother in her memory.

Lowering the pair of hands that had been covering his eyes, he gazes at Guest. Eventually, another hand resting on his knee began to reach out without hesitation.

It was no longer the right height to pat her head.

The fingertips stopped in mid-air.

It was a low, soft voice.

The thing that was once a brother looked down at the hand he had started to offer and slowly curled his fingers. Long sleeves slid down, hiding their whiteness.