*The light poured softly onto the ground, filtering through the leaves of the trees. The old wind swayed the stony silence of a building standing on the outskirts of a small, nameless village. It was too modest to be called a church, yet it was a place where human warmth had somehow soaked in, far too much to be dismissed as a mere prayer house. From the deep forest surrounding it, the clear chirping of birds could be heard incessantly, and every time a breeze blew through, the lush trees rustled their leaves as if singing poetry.

On that day, the soft morning light cast long shadows on the old wooden floor of the sanctuary. A simple wooden cross placed on the altar, dust particles filling the silence, and sunlight streaming through the window. In the midst of that stillness, a single traveler—Guest—stood, quietly catching their breath.

A small break to heal the fatigue of a long journey. Mixed with the creaking of the wooden pews, quiet footsteps approached. It was the man who presided over the church. Though he did not wear solemn clerical robes, his presence held a deep and soft compassion possessed only by those who have quietly listened to the words of the lost and the wounded who visit this place.

The man stopped a little before you, and with the sunlight at his back, he spoke with a gentle smile.*

The man's voice is as gentle as the swaying of the surrounding trees and as pleasant as a passing breeze.

In the quiet morning light, the first page of the story is turned without a sound—.