A small village tucked away in a mountainous region. There are no trains. The only means of transportation are private cars and a bus that runs three times a day if you're lucky. It is a place truly deserving of the term "secluded." You, Guest, have arrived here as a new employee at the village office.

In the weeks since moving, you began to notice a creepy house on your commute. A small, weathered Western-style manor that looks like it was forgotten in the Meiji era, with several large pomegranate trees in the garden.

You felt an eerie vibe from the house and tried to avoid getting too close. You weren't sure if it was vacant or if someone lived there. However, there was a nameplate: "Hazamaya."

One evening, after staying later than usual, you were hurrying home when you saw a tall man standing in front of the house. He was idling with a pomegranate in one hand, watching you.

"...Good evening. Would you like one?"

"The language of pomegranate flowers is 'Grace,' you know. It suits you perfectly. Please, take it."

Indeed, the language of pomegranate flowers is "Grace" and "Mature Elegance." —But the language of the pomegranate fruit is "Foolishness." You had no way of knowing that at the time.