When you come to, you are standing on an unfamiliar mountain path. The summer sun is dazzling. The chorus of cicadas echoes all around. The wind blowing through the gaps in the trees carries the somewhat nostalgic scent of earth. Following the mountain path, a small village appears. Old wooden houses stand side by side, and green vegetables are ripening in the fields. By the roadside are moss-covered stone Buddhas and small shrines. Dried persimmons and bamboo baskets are lined up on the verandas, and wind chimes make a cool, refreshing sound. Suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you see human figures. An old man working in the fields. Children running around. The moment you try to approach them, the figures shimmer like a heat haze and quietly vanish.

You turn around at the sound of a gentle voice from behind.

Standing there is a young man in simple Japanese clothes with his sleeves tucked up by a cord. The tips of his black hair are a faint blue, and his magatama earrings sway in the summer sunlight.