Along the good path, The Creator walked through the forest.
His footsteps were so soft that they seemed to merge with the earth itself, leaving no trace, no echo — as though the ground willingly absorbed the sound to preserve the silence that reigned there. The air was thick with the scent of damp soil, old leaves, and the faint sweetness of moss that clung to the roots of ancient trees. Every breath he took blended seamlessly with the breath of the forest, slow and steady, the rhythm of a world that had no need for haste.
The forest he crossed was dense — so dense that sunlight could barely reach the ground. The canopy above was a living ceiling of green and gold, where scattered rays pierced through only in faint, narrow beams. Those slivers of light fell like silk threads, weaving an ethereal pattern across the mist that hovered close to the earth. Dust motes floated lazily through the air, shimmering like tiny fragments of glass fallen from distant stars.
Every step he took carried an air of tranquility and precision. Though his face could not be seen, the calmness of his posture spoke of unshaken composure. He did not hurry, yet he did not linger. Each movement was deliberate, steady — the motion of one who understood the flow of the world too deeply to resist it.
The towering trees stretched high above, their tops lost to sight. Their trunks stood like pillars of an ancient temple, rough with age and covered in veils of moss. The tangled branches reached across the sky like black veins, trapping light in their web. The songs of daytime insects faded as he ventured deeper, replaced by the soft rustle of unseen creatures moving in the undergrowth. From afar, the occasional chirp of a bird echoed — sharp, lonely, then gone. When his foot pressed against a fallen twig, the brief snap of wood broke the stillness before silence swallowed it once more.
In the dim light, the soft shimmer of his blue kimono caught faint reflections from the few surviving rays of sun. It moved gently with him, rippling like water touched by moonlight. The fabric, though dark, bore subtle patterns that seemed to shift and vanish when viewed from different angles, as though part of the shadow itself. The black umbrella he held remained closed, its tip tracing invisible lines through the air — a streak of dark ink across the blank parchment of the world.
The wind returned, stronger this time, sweeping through the trees. Leaves broke free and spun in slow spirals, falling like fading embers. The shafts of sunlight grew wider, cutting through the gloom. The forest, once suffocatingly enclosed, began to breathe again. The Creator's pace did not change. His robe whispered softly with every movement, brushing against itself with the quiet sound of wind speaking in another language.
And as he began to emerge from the forest, the horizon opened before him. The trees thinned, their shadows no longer dominant, and the golden light of the afternoon spilled freely across the land. Warmth brushed against his unseen face. The scent of wildflowers replaced that of damp earth, and from somewhere distant came the faint sound of running water — a river murmuring through its endless path.
When he finally stepped beyond the forest's edge, he was met with a vast expanse that stretched to infinity. Rolling fields of green swayed gently under the sunlight, each blade of grass catching the light in its own way. The wind played over the fields, creating waves of green that shimmered like an ocean under the sun's gaze. The horizon was painted with a soft hue — the pale gold of a late afternoon fading slowly into the blue of the distant sky. The voices of birds filled the air, layered and harmonious, a gentle song of the living earth.
From where he stood, he could see several villages scattered across the plains and low hills. Wisps of white smoke rose lazily from chimneys, curling into the air before dissolving into the light. Wooden houses sat peacefully amid the fields, small and humble, their rooftops catching the sunlight. From afar, the faint hum of life reached him — laughter, footsteps, conversation, the ordinary rhythm of people simply existing. It was faint but constant, like the pulse of the world itself.
The Creator observed it all without expression. The black umbrella in his hand remained still and closed. His shadow stretched long across the grass, dark and unmoving, like an image painted on the surface of the world.
He saw people walking along the dirt roads that wound through the meadows — carrying baskets, leading animals, or simply strolling together beneath the warm light. Their movements were full of ease, of simple living untouched by burden. Though distant, their energy reached even him: the quiet radiance of lives burning with purpose, small yet bright.
Among them, one group stood out — a cluster of travelers led by a man with vivid orange hair. His presence was commanding, the color of his hair blazing beneath the sunlight like a living flame. His companions surrounded him in laughter, their words faint in the wind, their figures glowing softly in the golden hour.
A little farther away was another gathering — smaller, lighter, gentler. A group of small-framed women with hair of pure pink, like petals of cherry blossoms drifting on an invisible breeze. As they moved, the sunlight shimmered on their hair, scattering hues of rose and silver that danced in rhythm with the wind. Their presence filled that part of the plain with a delicate liveliness, fragile yet warm.
The Creator saw them all — but his gaze did not linger. He did not stop nor slow. He walked past them quietly, as if their world and his did not truly touch. His direction remained forward, eyes fixed beyond the horizon, where the path stretched endlessly.
The breeze swept around him, carrying the warmth of the plains. The edges of his kimono fluttered with a low whisper, echoing the voice of the sky. As he passed, the grass stirred lightly, and then returned to stillness — as though the world acknowledged his presence only for a moment before forgetting him again.
He moved among people like a passing wind. None turned to see him. None noticed the faint silhouette that walked through the sunlight. The silence around him deepened, and even the sound of distant laughter seemed to fade. Only the quiet heartbeat of the land remained, pulsing gently beneath his feet.
And then, after a long walk through that endless sea of green and light, the landscape began to shift again. The open plains gave way to roads of stone and fields fenced with wooden posts. In the distance rose walls — enormous and gray, towering far above the land like the spine of a sleeping giant.
He had reached the largest kingdom he had ever seen. The massive stone walls stood before him, stretching wide and high, their shadows stretching across the land. Atop the highest towers flew banners of gold, fluttering proudly against the sky. Each ripple caught the sunlight, scattering reflections that glimmered like stars across the air.
Even from afar, the sound of the city reached him. The deep ring of bells echoed through the air, steady and ceremonial. Beneath it came the rhythmic clatter of hooves, the chatter of merchants, the laughter of children, and the metallic clang of work within the heart of the kingdom. All those sounds blended together — a grand, living symphony of civilization.
The wind here was warmer, carrying the scent of metal, baked bread, and faint traces of incense from unseen temples. The air shimmered faintly, touched by heat and the golden dust of human life.
The Creator stopped for a brief moment. The black umbrella in his hand tilted upward slightly, catching the sunlight along its curve. The reflected light flashed across its surface — a quiet brilliance, restrained yet captivating.
He looked at the kingdom before him.
He did not speak.
He did not move.
It was as though he stood before a painting — silent, motionless, yet filled with a thousand stories woven between the strokes of color.
And from that moment, he continued forward — walking toward the road that led into the greatest kingdom in the world, his figure fading slowly into the bright horizon.
He walked throughout the kingdom. Even though his form appeared abnormal, no one seemed to notice him at all — as if he were invisible, as if he did not exist within the same plane of reality as them.
The kingdom stretched endlessly, vast and magnificent beyond sight. The view unfolded like an ocean of stone and light, its breath flowing through the streets and rooftops. The sun of late morning hung high above, warm yet gentle, painting the world in soft gold. That light cascaded down upon the gray stone walls and copper rooftops of countless houses, scattering into sparkles like a sea of glittering dust suspended in the air. It was as if the entire city shimmered, breathing beneath the touch of heaven.
The sound of life filled every corner — footsteps echoing across stone roads, wooden wheels creaking under the weight of carts, merchants calling loudly to attract passersby, children laughing as they chased each other through narrow alleys, and somewhere in the distance, a musician's tune drifted faintly on the wind. Every sound blended together, becoming a living symphony, the heartbeat of a kingdom that had never known silence.
Yet, within all that bustling life, he remained unseen. No eyes turned toward him. No voices paused mid-sentence to question his presence. He walked, cloaked in stillness, through the rhythm of countless lives — untouched, unnoticed. The faint tapping of his footsteps on the stone road made no echo, like the sound of a shadow breathing. People brushed past, their sleeves almost grazing his, yet not one of them flinched. They simply continued on, as if he were nothing but an illusion, an afterimage that the mind refused to perceive.
He passed through the great market square — a place bursting with color and movement. Stalls stretched in long rows beneath hanging canopies, bright fabrics fluttering in the wind. Merchants displayed their goods in heaps of color: woven silks that gleamed under the light, jewelry of polished brass, baskets overflowing with fruit whose fragrance drifted through the air — ripe red apples, deep purple grapes, and golden fruits that gleamed like gems. Yet to him, all of this was silent, distant, unreal. The scent of ripeness never reached him. The light that touched the fruit cast no reflection in his eyes.
He continued on past a row of food stalls. Steam rose from enormous pots, curling into the air like soft smoke. The rich, savory scent of cooking spread thickly through the street; the rhythmic clatter of ladles against metal filled the space with warmth and life. But as he walked by, those sounds seemed to fade away — as though the world's pulse dimmed around him. The warmth in the air brushed close, yet could not touch his skin. Every sensation slipped past him, unable to connect. He moved like a being between worlds, existing and not existing in the same breath.
He walked down the main road, paved with smooth white stones that reflected the sun's golden rays. The path led straight toward the grand palace that rose at the heart of the kingdom — tall, majestic, and radiant like a mountain sculpted by divine hands. Its walls were a blend of ivory and pale gold, and the sunlight scattered across them like countless stars sealed within the stone. Tower upon tower climbed into the heavens, each crowned with fluttering banners that caught the high wind.
He walked past the royal district. There, nobles in their splendid attire moved gracefully, their jewels catching the light. Soldiers clad in silver armor stood in disciplined rows, their polished breastplates gleaming under the sun. Yet not one of them saw him. No guard turned to question his presence. No noble paused to glance his way. It was as if he were a mere shadow cast across the path — existing only in the narrow space between breath and silence.
He walked past the mansions of the high-born. Behind their tall walls lay gardens filled with rare flowers in bloom — soft shades of white and blue, delicate petals trembling under the faint breeze. The scent of the blossoms lingered in the air, fresh and cool. Small ponds mirrored the sky above, where white birds drifted lazily through the light. But as he passed by, his reflection did not appear in the water. The surface remained untouched, smooth and empty, rejecting even the trace of his existence.
The wind moved gently through the streets, carrying with it the whisper of falling petals — thin white petals that glided through the air and brushed across the faceless surface where his visage should have been. They landed at his feet and dissolved into faint glimmers of light, vanishing before they could settle. The sunlight of early afternoon struck the edge of the black umbrella in his hand, scattering a quiet glint like dew clinging to morning grass.
He walked without pause. The rhythm of his movement was calm and constant, like the breathing of time itself. The world moved around him — laughter, shouts, footsteps, all flowing endlessly — and yet he remained unmoving in spirit, a single still point within an ever-turning current. There was no fatigue in his steps, no haste, no hesitation.
He entered a narrow alleyway between old wooden buildings, the space dim and cool. Shafts of sunlight slipped through gaps in the eaves, forming golden lines that danced upon floating dust. The air here was heavy with stillness, as though time had slowed. The noise of the outer streets faded, leaving only the faint rustle of the breeze and the distant murmur of life beyond. The silence was not empty — it was deep, calm, almost sacred, as though this hidden path existed outside the world's noise.
He passed through the alley and emerged into an open square. The sky had shifted to the warm orange of evening, light stretching long across the stone ground. The last rays of the sun painted the world in amber and bronze. From a tall tower somewhere in the city, a bell tolled softly, its sound resonating far and low — calling forth the memories of ages long past.
He kept walking, unhurried. His shadow stretched before him, long and wavering beneath the sinking light. The air grew cooler, the touch of night slowly threading through the breeze. Moisture gathered faintly in the air, heralding the twilight, but his form remained untouched. The chill, the fading warmth — none of it belonged to him.
And then, at last, he saw an old man.