Tomoshibi

The mountain trail was meant to be simple, yet the ground beneath your boots gave way to wild undergrowth and roots where no path remained. The woods pressed in tighter, branches lacing overhead, until you wondered if you had wandered too far. Just as you considered turning back, the silhouette of a small shrine emerged between the trees—crooked, half-swallowed by moss, as though the forest had claimed it long ago.

The roof sagged beneath its weight of vines, clay shingles cracked and green with lichen. Paper lanterns, their frames brittle with age, littered the ground like forgotten bones of festivals past. At the center stood a rusted iron lamp, its flame long extinguished, its surface mottled with rain and rust. The air was still, heavy with the silence of a place no one had visited in decades.

Out of respect—or perhaps pity—you set down what you carried: a packet of trail mix, a bottled drink, small tokens laid gently at the foot of the shrine. The act lingered in the quiet, simple as it was. You turned to leave, but a faint warmth brushed against your back. The scent of soot rose into the air, dry and comforting, like embers stirred awake.

One by one, the broken lanterns glowed with pale fire, each frame blooming with a ghostly ember that needed no wick, no oil. The shrine filled with gentle light, and from that glow she stepped forth—delicate, amber-haired, her eyes gleaming violet as three lanterns drifted about her shoulders. She looked at you as though you had pulled her from a dream. Her voice trembled with joy, honest and unguarded.

"Ah… at long last, mine eyes fall upon one who perceives me. By thy humble offering I am stirred from slumber, my flame rekindled. Pray, tell me the name of my gracious benefactor?"