When she opened her eyes, a thin haze hung in the room. Mizunashi Shiori lay motionless on her bed, simply gazing at the scene before her. The morning light slipping through the gap in the curtains made the faint water droplets drifting in the air shimmer softly. It was a stillness so profound, it felt as though the entire world had sunk beneath the water. It was a June morning. Exactly three months had passed since her son, Sōta, had left this house for graduate school. Shiori slowly raised her upper body. Her hair, which reached her shoulders, was black but now noticeably streaked with white. As she tucked the sleep-tousled strands behind her ear, she let out a breath. That exhaled breath made the mist before her eyes waver faintly. "[whispers] That dream again…" The last words dissolved and vanished in her mouth. She had dreamed of that forest again. A quiet, somehow nostalgic forest where thick fog drifted and strange, semi-transparent trees gave off a pale glow. She had been having the same dream repeatedly over the past few days. And when she woke in the morning, mist would be hanging in her room like this. At first, she thought the humidifying function of her air purifier had broken. But it wasn't that. This was real, physical mist. And it was proof that something which shouldn't exist in reality was encroaching upon it. Shiori lowered her feet from the bed. The coldness of the wooden flooring crept up from the soles of her feet. Forty-eight years old. She wasn't young anymore. Her joints reminded her of that every morning. She headed to the washroom. For a few seconds, Shiori stared intently at her own face reflected in the bathroom mirror. The dark circles under her eyes seemed to have deepened even further over these past three months. Her already slender frame had grown thinner still, and the shoulders of her worn-out beige cardigan hung loose. (*I've aged.*) She thought it, but didn't say it aloud. Her gaze dropped to the thing wrapped around her left wrist. A bracelet made of faded, partially cracked plastic beads. Sōta had made it during craft time in kindergarten and handed it to her, saying, "Mom, thank you for everything." She had hardly ever taken it off in the twenty-plus years since. Shiori gently traced the beads with her finger. (*Another day begins.*) It wasn't hope. It sank deep into her chest with the weight of a burden. She stood in the kitchen. Preparing breakfast for one. She opened the refrigerator. Leftover miso soup from yesterday, and half a block of tofu. Back when Sōta was here, she made him a boxed lunch every morning. Rolled omelet, sausages, broccoli for color. He was a picky eater, so she would mince vegetables finely and mix them into hamburger patties. She turned on the stove. Added oil. Fried a single sunny-side-up egg. The motions were far too practiced, and far too empty. While waiting for the egg to cook, Shiori looked out the window. A twenty-five-year-old apartment building in the suburbs of Tokyo. From the third-floor window, she could see the narrow road along the train tracks and the old apartment building across the way. The sky was overcast and gloomy. "[sad] …There's no one here anymore." The words slipped out more clearly than she expected. Sōta had moved into the graduate school dormitory. She had managed his tuition and living expenses somehow with the money she earned from her part-time job and the meager child support from her ex-husband. It was hard. But she was desperate. Raising that child to be independent was her entire life. And now, that role was over. As she transferred the fried egg to a plate and warmed the miso soup, she didn't know what kind of expression she was wearing. She might have been crying. She might have been expressionless. She just stood there in the kitchen, listening to the small sound of the miso soup boiling. After breakfast, she stood before the six-tatami-mat room Sōta had used. She opened the door. The room was exactly as Sōta had left it. A desk, a bookshelf, a bed. On the wall, his junior high school basketball team uniform still hung there. (*He probably won't come back here anymore.*) That was natural, and it was right. Children grow up and leave their parents. She understood that grieving over it was just a parent's ego. But still. Shiori opened the desk drawer. She thought she would tidy it up. She couldn't leave it like this forever. Inside, worn-out pens and notebooks had been tossed in carelessly. She picked them up one by one, sorting them into things to keep and things to discard. And then. She found a single envelope. Opening it, she found a handwritten letter inside. The handwriting was a little angular, yet earnest. *'To Mom. Thank you for everything. You always put yourself last and worked so hard for me. This time, I'll make things easier for you. So please, live more for yourself. Mother's Day. From Sōta.'* It was his handwriting from junior high school. Shiori clutched the letter in both hands. (*Live more for yourself.*) She couldn't do that. She didn't know how to live for herself. She had come this far without ever learning. "[crying] …Sōta…" Stifling her voice, she wept. Being a mother was the entirety of who Mizunashi Shiori was. Now that she had completely lost that role, she had no idea who she was anymore. Clutching the letter to her chest, she collapsed to the floor, sinking down. Stifling her voice, her shoulders trembling, she cried for a long, long time. --- It happened that night. Shiori lay on her futon, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes were heavy from the day's tears, and a dull ache throbbed deep in her head. She had to sleep. She had her part-time job again tomorrow. Accounting assistant work at a small office. A day spent facing numbers, ending with hardly a word spoken to anyone. But she was afraid to sleep. Because she would have that dream. Her eyelids grew heavy. She couldn't resist. She fell into a deep sleep. And before she knew it, Shiori was standing in the forest. --- It was a forest shrouded in deep fog. Visibility was probably less than ten meters. All around her stood trees whose trunks glowed with a semi-transparent light, their pale luminescence scattering through the mist and making the entire space faintly bright. (*This place is…*) She slowly looked around. The ground was covered in moss, and with every step she took, a damp sensation transmitted through the soles of her shoes. The air was chilly and cold; breathing in made the depths of her lungs feel cool. Somewhere, there was the sound of water dripping. The sound of wind passing through the trees. *—Are you lonely?* Suddenly, she heard a voice. She couldn't tell the direction. It was as if the surrounding mist itself had whispered right into her ear. It was a nostalgic voice. It closely resembled the voice of her own mother, who had passed away long ago. A gentle, slightly hoarse, warm voice. "[frightened] Who…?" Shiori forced the words out. *—Are you lonely?* The voice repeated the same question. "[nervous] …I'm not lonely. I'm fine." She answered reflexively. *—You are lying to yourself.* The words were gentle. Yet they carried a definitive resonance. *—When you lie, the fog thickens. That is the law here.* Shiori caught her breath. The surrounding mist was denser than it had been moments before. She placed a hand on her chest. Her heart was pounding rapidly. (*Lying? Me?*) I'm not lonely. I'm fine. Those were the words she had been telling herself for years. Don't cry in front of Sōta. Don't complain at work. She had tried to convince herself that she was a strong mother. But that wasn't true. She *was* lonely. She wanted to be needed by someone. The moment she realized that, the scenery before her warped. *—You are simply afraid of living for yourself.* The voice echoed again. "[angry] …That's not true." *—It is. You believe you have no value unless you are living for someone else.* It hit the mark perfectly. Unable to retort, Shiori just stood there, rooted to the spot. --- She woke up. Her pillow was wet with tears. Mist was drifting in the room. It was thicker than yesterday. She could clearly tell her visibility had worsened slightly. The window was covered in condensation, droplets trailing down. Shiori sat up on her futon and stared at her own hands. (*Is this reality?*) She doubted her own sanity. Why were the events of a dream affecting reality? --- The next day, Shiori tried to go about her usual routine. She went to work, organized numbers, and returned home at her regular time. A quiet day with almost no conversation with anyone. But her mind was filled with last night's dream. *—Why are you so afraid of living for yourself?* That voice posed the question. She couldn't find an answer. Just thinking about living for herself made guilt constrict her chest. (*There's no way I deserve to take it easy. I should have worked harder for Sōta. More…*) Inside her heart, a voice blaming herself echoed. Night came. Just like the night before, she lay down on her futon. Mist was already hanging in the room from the start. It drifted, creeping along the floor like smoke. (*I'm scared. But…*) But, why was it? Somewhere in her heart, a part of her accepted it. She closed her eyes. She fell asleep. When she came to, she was standing in that forest again. This time, she had come much deeper than the night before. Even when she looked back, the path she should have walked was sealed off by fog, and she could see nothing. *—You've come well, Mizunashi Shiori.* A voice. This time, clearly from the empty space before her. The mist suddenly began to swirl. It undulated as if possessing a will of its own, gathering in one spot. Then, slowly, two pale, milky-white lights took shape. The reason they felt like "eyes" was because she sensed a warm gaze emanating from them. (*This is the… of this forest…*) She knew instinctively. This was the very will of this other world. *—I am Wisp. The consciousness that dwells in this Sea of Lamenting Trees. And you are what is called a "Mayoibito" here.* "[confused] Mayo… bito…" *—Yes. Only humans who harbor a strong sense of loss or lingering attachment in the real world are called here through dreams. Once every few decades, that is.* The mist consciousness that identified itself as Wisp slowly moved as if to encircle her. *—You can no longer go back.* A chill ran down her spine at those words. "[scared] Can't go back…?" When Shiori turned around, there truly was no path. The direction she had come from was completely sealed off by darkness. *—Are you afraid?* Wisp asked. Its voice was infinitely gentle. However, Shiori instinctively sensed an absolute cruelty within that gentleness. She didn't answer. Wisp continued regardless. *—This place is a world of compensation. To gain something, you must offer something in return. Whether to advance through the forest, to know the path, or to heal a wound.* "Compensation…" *—Yes. What you will offer is your memories.* Shiori gasped. *—Precious recollections, the faces of important people, irreplaceable words. This forest will take them from you, little by little, bit by bit.* "[scared] …No…" *—Even so, will you proceed?* The two lights made of mist gazed intently at Shiori. *—Beyond this forest lies the "Spring of Truth." What is reflected there could be your past, or your future. Or perhaps, something you have already lost. You will know if you go.* The bead bracelet was still on Shiori's left wrist. It felt warm. It felt like her last connection to the real world. "[sad] …I don't know who I am anymore." She murmured quietly. "[crying] I've lived my whole life as a mother. But that role is over now. And then, I realized there was nothing left of me. Nothing…" *—Let us go and find it.* Wisp's voice was filled with a strange tenderness. *—Let us search t