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The path ended at a simple wooden gate—two upright posts bound together with age-darkened rope, the wood worn smooth by centuries of passing hands.

An elderly man waited there.

He stood straight despite his years, hands folded loosely at his sides, his hair silver and neatly bound. When he saw her, he inclined his head and bowed—slow, precise, arms held close to his body, spine unbroken by the gesture.

"Good afternoon. My name is Moriya Genjirō," he said formally, offering his name as one offers credentials.

Fae remembered what Miyuki had taught her.

She bowed in return. Awkwardly, a beat too stiff, hands held straight at her sides, shoulders squared as though bracing for a blow rather than greeting a welcome. She felt absurdly conscious of every movement.

"Konnichiwa, Hajimemashite**!" she said, exhausting her vocabulary. "I am Fae."

The elder's eyes widened and then softened slightly, though his posture did not change.

"Welcome," he said. He took her luggage without comment, moving with an ease that spoke of long habit, and led them to a modest Jeep parked just beyond the gate.

The drive took them away from the town and onto narrowing roads, where buildings thinned and trees pressed closer together. The man spoke little, offering only quiet comments about the countryside as the landscape shifted—concrete to gravel, gravel to earth.

At last, the road disappeared altogether.

They stopped at the edge of a forest where the ancient trees seemed to reach the sky.

The air there was cool and deep, heavy with moss and leaf-mould and something older that made Fae's wolf lift its head, attention snapping into place.

"We need to walk from here," the man said gently.

Fae thanked him, her heart beating a tattoo of excitement in her chest.

They stepped beneath the trees and onto a hidden path, and the world changed like a veil had been lifted.

Light filtered differently here, sound seemed to travel from far away, the forest moving and seeming to close in behind them. With every step, the sense of being watched grew, like the very trees monitored their every step.

Somewhere ahead, hidden by bark and shadow and illusion, waited the place she had been called to.

And Fae walked on, deeper into the forest, towards the unknown that she had chosen.

The forest path narrowed, then softened beneath their feet.

Ferns brushed their calves. The air grew cooler and layered with the scent of damp earth and old wood. For a time, there was nothing but trees—trunks rising straight and dark, canopies interlacing so tight that the light filtered through in pale threads.

Then the path curved.

And the forest opened.

Fae slowed instinctively.

Ahead of them lay a village.

It almost seemed like she had slipped through a rabbit hole into the hollow of a tree and travelled back in time.

Low wooden houses lined a wide, clean path, their dark timber facades softened by age and care. White paper walls glowed faintly in the dappled light, framed by deep eaves and gently sloped roofs. Blackened beams contrasted with pale plaster, the lines precise and beautiful in their restraint.

It reminded Fae of old sketches of villages preserved with reverence.

Fukamori.

The Forest Deep.