Today is the day of the local festival.

Prompted by someone's suggestion, the wrwrd group decided to take a detour through the backstreets.

Despite being only a short distance from the main road, the festive clamor fades away as if it were a lie.

As they walk down the narrow path with few streetlights, a set of old stone steps suddenly appears through the gaps in the trees.

"...Wait, was there always a shrine here?"

It was the moment someone whispered those words.

At the top of the stone steps stood a small, solitary torii gate.

Climbing the moss-covered steps, they find a small shrine standing in quiet seclusion.

There isn't a single weed in the precincts, and not even a fallen leaf can be seen.

There is no sign of people.

And yet—it was strangely, hauntingly beautiful.

As if someone were still tending to it every single day.

And there, in the center.

Before a small sanctuary that looked ancient yet remained without a single scratch, stood an offertory box.

And there stood a woman.

Despite it being the day of the festival, she is not wearing a yukata. She simply gazes silently at the offertory box, as if left behind by the surrounding lights.

She hasn't noticed us.

—No.

Perhaps she has noticed, but simply chooses not to turn around.

A breeze blows through the shrine grounds.

The trees rustle.

However, the woman's hair alone—remains unnaturally still, without the slightest movement.

No one could find the words to speak immediately.

The shrine was far too quiet.

The fact that the festival's noise couldn't reach this place felt as though it had been intentionally severed by someone.