The forest had changed overnight. The air still smelled of burnt earth and rain, but now the quiet was broken by human voices — distant, curious, alive.
Liara crouched behind a thicket of fern and thorns, her bare feet sinking into the soft mud. Her ears caught the sound before her mind could shape it into meaning: laughter. It echoed faintly through the trees, warm and bright as sunlight piercing mist.
"Over there!" a child shouted. "That's where the star fell!"
Liara pressed herself lower. Through the leaves, she saw flashes of color — children running along the trail that wound down from the mountain. Their wooden sandals clacked against the stones, and their voices rose with excitement.
Behind them came the deeper tones of men. Woodcutters, carrying axes across their shoulders, spoke in hushed tones that carried through the trees.
"They say the ground shook last night," one said. "Saw light brighter than any lantern."
"A comet, maybe," another replied. "Or… something else."
"Something else?"
The man hesitated, his gaze sweeping toward the deeper part of the forest — toward her. "An omen. My grandmother said fox spirits fall like stars when they're cast out of heaven."
The others laughed uneasily.
Liara's fingers trembled against the tree trunk. Fox spirit. The word struck her like an echo from a dream. Her tailbone ached faintly where once her nine tails had swayed like rivers of flame.
She listened, heart pounding.
"They bring misfortune," another man muttered. "Burn the crops, sicken the cattle. Best to keep away."
A third scoffed. "Bah. You still believe those old tales? The gods left this land long ago. Now we have only taxes and rain."
Their laughter broke the tension, but Liara did not smile. The language of this world was familiar, but their words felt distant, worn down by disbelief. They no longer remembered the songs once sung to her kind. The old shrines had turned to dust; the prayers had gone silent.
When the men disappeared down the trail, the children lingered. They gathered near a mossy stump, daring each other with wide eyes.
"Go on, Kira," one boy said. "You said you'd touch the crater!"
"I didn't!" the girl protested. "What if the ghost's still there?"
"There's no ghost!" another shouted — but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying his fear.
Liara's lips curled faintly. Ghost. That was what she had become in their eyes. A whisper. A dare.
The children threw stones toward the forest. The rocks landed far from her, but the sound made her flinch. Instinct urged her to reveal her true form — to make them bow in awe. But when she tried to summon her light, nothing came. Her power remained locked, a faint pulse somewhere deep in her chest.
She pulled the tattered cloth tighter around her shoulders. The wind cut through her skin, cold as memory.
The children's laughter softened as they turned back toward the village, calling to one another. Soon only their fading voices remained, melting into birdsong and rustling leaves.
For a long while, Liara didn't move. She stared at the trail where they had gone — the place where laughter lived, where warmth and firelight waited. Her stomach twisted painfully. Hunger was new to her. The divine did not need to eat. But the girl she had become… did.
She waited until the sun began to set before leaving the cover of trees. She followed the faint path, careful not to be seen. The village below looked small from the ridge — thatched roofs and curling smoke, surrounded by rice fields turning gold in the dying light. The scent of cooked grain drifted upward, torturing her senses.
For the first time since her fall, Liara felt the sting of tears. She did not know why she cried — for her lost home, for her hunger, or for the laughter she dared not join.
She whispered to herself, voice barely a breath, "Am I monster… or memory?"
The wind carried no answer. Only the far-off sound of a bell from the temple at dusk.
As the sky deepened into violet, lanterns bloomed in the village like tiny stars reborn. Liara watched them flicker with longing. They reminded her of the celestial towers that once glowed in the heavens — the citadels of her kin, where laughter was music and betrayal wore a beautiful face.
The image stabbed at her. She pressed her palms to her temples, trying to chase it away. Every time she reached for her past, she felt both closer and more lost.
Then — a sound.
Hoofbeats. A cart rolling up the mountain path. Liara ducked behind a tree as an old man passed by, his cart piled with firewood. He hummed softly to himself, the tune slow and weary. At his side hung a small lantern that cast pools of warm light against the darkness.
The glow brushed her face for a moment, and he looked up.
For one terrible heartbeat, their eyes met.
The man froze. His hand went to the amulet around his neck — a wooden charm shaped like a fox's face. He whispered something under his breath, a prayer or perhaps a curse, and whipped the reins. The cart rattled away in a hurry, leaving dust and silence behind.
Liara's throat closed. She hadn't meant to scare him. She hadn't even moved.
But to him, her pale face in the shadows, her wild hair and dark eyes — she must have looked like a spirit indeed.
When the sound of wheels faded, she sank to the ground. The old cloth slipped from her shoulders, and for the first time, she saw herself clearly in the water pooled beside the trail.
Her reflection trembled in the ripples — a human girl, dirt-streaked and hollow-eyed, with no trace of the radiance she once carried. Only her eyes betrayed what she truly was: depths of gold hidden beneath brown.
She didn't recognize the face staring back.
Night fell. Crickets sang. Somewhere in the village, the laughter began again — fainter this time, wrapped in the rhythm of human life. Liara watched until the last lantern dimmed.
Then she rose, wrapped herself tighter, and turned back into the woods.
She didn't yet know that every whisper about the ghost in the forest would travel farther by morning — carried to a manor where a lonely young man listened to every rumor as if searching for meaning in them.
She didn't know that her sorrow had already begun to call to him — like starlight calling to shadow.