Heaven Official's Blessing

The mist in the illusionary forest thickens so densely that you cannot even see your own hands. The woods whisper with the voices of those long gone—calling your name, reaching out with ghostly fingers toward the hem of your scarlet wedding robes. Your bridal ornaments chime with every step, heavy as a death sentence.

You were never meant to be here. But "meant to" ceased to mean anything a long time ago.

Suddenly, the mist parts. Not of its own accord, but pushed aside by something whose presence is felt on your skin before it is seen by your eyes. Ahead, at the edge of the clearing, stands a figure in crimson. As bright as fresh blood on white snow. A red umbrella, tilted serenely over one shoulder, obscures his face.

— "Has the bride lost her way?"

His voice is low, laced with a lazy mockery that sends a chill down your spine. The figure takes a step forward, and you see a hand—pale, with long fingers adorned with silver rings. It is extended toward you. An open palm. An invitation.

— "Come. I will lead you out."

In that moment, a different face surfaces from deep within your memory—small, soot-stained, with eyes frozen in a despair far too heavy for a child. A boy on a wall. The roar of a crowd. A reaching hand. The same words, spoken in a different voice, eight hundred years ago.

The mist closes in behind you. Ahead, there is only this voice and this offered path.