She was slightly startled after seeing the figure of The Creator. Her body trembled faintly, a shiver running up her spine as though the air itself had turned against her. She asked,
"What is it?"
The Creator said nothing, merely standing there, gazing—if one could call it gazing—at her. The silence between them thickened until it seemed almost tangible. She began to panic.
"I don't know what you want," she said again, her voice breaking softly under the weight of uncertainty.
The Creator remained silent, expressionless, motionless. He slowly withdrew his hand from her shoulder. The gesture, though gentle, carried an overwhelming stillness. As the invisible weight lifted, she began to steady her breath, forcing her heartbeat back into rhythm. She thought that perhaps, The Creator simply wanted her to introduce herself.
"I am Serin," she said quietly, "I used to serve the royal family… but not anymore."
Her words came out trembling—saturated with sorrow and fear. Then, almost hesitantly, she added,
"And who are you?"
The woman's breath came shallow, each inhale faint like a whisper dissolving into the cool air. Her arms shook visibly beneath the dim light filtering through the forest canopy. The faint rustle of leaves filled the silence, blending with the occasional chirp of unseen insects. A cool breeze drifted by, carrying with it the damp scent of soil and rain—rain that must have fallen not long before. The night was quiet, but that quiet was heavy, like a weight pressing upon her chest.
The soft light of the moon spilled through the tall trees, outlining the figure of The Creator in faint silver. His long, light-blue hair moved slightly with the wind, the strands glimmering faintly like threads of the sky itself. The tie that held his hair swayed gently behind his neck. The umbrella floating at his back cast a shadow across the ground, a strange dark form that stretched and twisted across the uneven grass, alive in its own distorted rhythm.
Her heart pounded so loudly she thought he might hear it. Her lips trembled, losing color under the pressure of her fear. She could feel her pulse racing, drumming against her ribs as if trying to escape the confines of her body.
He had no face. That was what terrified her the most. Where there should have been eyes, a mouth, a nose—there was nothing but smooth, featureless skin. It was an absence so profound that it seemed to devour the light around it. The emptiness of his face was a silence deeper than words, an abyss that reflected nothing back.
"What is it?" she repeated, her voice quivering like a fragile thread stretched thin. She tried to sound calm, to keep her voice steady, but it came out almost inaudible, as though the forest itself swallowed her words.
He did not move, did not breathe, did not even blink—if blinking were something he could do. His presence was motionless, but somehow immense. The moonlight glimmered faintly upon his blue kimono, tracing its folds in ghostly light. Each movement of the fabric seemed like the surface of calm water touched by a breeze—soft, deliberate, unreal.
The longer she looked, the more it felt as if time had frozen between them. The forest grew still, even the insects seemed to quiet. The silence stretched like an eternity.
"I don't know what you want," she said again, almost pleading this time. Her hands clenched against her chest, seeking warmth that wasn't there. The fear rising within her was almost suffocating. The Creator's silence pressed against her like invisible gravity, bending the air around him.
He slowly raised the hand that had touched her shoulder before, then withdrew it completely. The movement was so fluid, so calm, that it resembled ripples across still water. The shadow of his hand stretched over the ground, passing through blades of grass before fading into darkness again. That simple act—merely pulling his hand away—was enough to ease the unseen pressure that had wrapped around her heart.
Her breathing steadied. The shaking in her hands began to lessen. The cold that had seeped into her bones began to recede. It was as if she could finally feel air returning to her lungs.
He was still there, unmoving, yet the sense of danger she first felt began to fade. There was still mystery, still strangeness—but not hostility. She studied him carefully now, her gray eyes flickering with both fear and curiosity. She wondered if perhaps, he had never meant her harm at all. His presence, though chilling, did not feel like a threat. It was distant, detached—beyond such mortal things.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, she gathered what little courage she had left and spoke again. Her voice, though quiet, carried a new steadiness.
"I am Serin," she said. "I used to serve the royal family, but not anymore."
The words trembled in the air, heavy with resignation. Her eyes lowered, unable to meet the faceless void before her. The memories she had tried to bury for so long began to rise again.
She could almost see the grand halls of the royal palace: tall marble pillars gleaming beneath chandeliers, the echo of footsteps on polished stone, the scent of oil lamps burning through endless nights. Voices—distant and sharp—echoed faintly in her mind: orders, whispers, laughter. And then, the silence that came afterward.
Her chest tightened as those echoes faded into the night. Her gaze fell to the ground. There, in the faint moonlight, her own shadow overlapped with his. Her form was clear and trembling; his, long and smooth, distorted by the faint shimmer of the umbrella behind him. It was the shadow of something that existed yet did not belong to the same world.
Serin raised a trembling hand to her chest, pressing lightly as though to reassure herself that her heart still beat. She felt fragile—like a figure carved from glass, one wrong breath away from breaking.
"I used to serve the royal family…" she repeated softly to herself, as though reminding her own soul of what she once was. "…but not anymore."
The sadness in her tone was quiet, yet vast. It lingered between the two of them like mist that refused to disperse.
Then, after a brief silence, she lifted her eyes once more, forcing herself to speak.
"And who are you?"
Her question floated in the cool air, fragile and uncertain.
But The Creator gave no answer.
He stood there in silence, the same unmoving figure framed against the dim light of the moon. The umbrella behind him shifted slightly, as if breathing with the wind. The shadow rippled faintly across the forest floor, its edges blurring with the motion of grass.
The night deepened. Clouds began to drift across the sky, veiling the moon in pale gray. As the light dimmed, their surroundings melted into shades of blue and black. The faint glimmer on his kimono faded until he seemed to merge entirely with the darkness—an entity of shadow and stillness.
She could not look away. Fear still clung to her, but so did fascination. The stillness around him drew her in, like a reflection on water that dared not be disturbed.
The silence between them grew heavier, yet not suffocating. It was a silence that held meaning—an unspoken truth she could not name. The air itself seemed to hum faintly, carrying an unseen resonance that wrapped around him like a veil.
She could feel it then: a power that surrounded The Creator. Not violent, not cruel, but vast—so vast that her mind could barely comprehend it. It was the kind of presence that could unmake the world if it so desired, yet it stood there doing nothing, simply existing.
Her heart continued to beat within her chest, echoing in her ears. Around them, the forest whispered: leaves shifting, distant insects singing, the faint sigh of the earth beneath. Everything became part of the same quiet rhythm.
The line between dream and reality blurred. Serin could no longer tell if she was awake, or standing inside some vast illusion conjured by his presence. The very air seemed thicker around him, rippling faintly as though reality itself bent ever so slightly in his wake.
Her fear slowly changed shape—it no longer felt sharp like a blade but deep and cold like water. She stared at him longer now, not to flee, but to understand. The face that held no features reflected the pale moonlight, smooth and empty like the surface of a mirror that showed no world at all.
He was still. Completely still. The world moved around him, but he remained unchanged—as though he stood outside of time itself.
She could only stand there, small and trembling before a being she could not comprehend. And yet, deep within her fear, there was a strange calm—a quiet realization that despite everything, she was in no danger.
The faceless being before her simply existed. No threat, no malice, no intent—only silence.
And in that silence, Serin found something she had not felt for a long time—
a sense of stillness, pure and absolute.
Then, the mouth of The Creator slowly appeared, emerging in silence so absolute that even the faintest sound seemed forbidden to exist.
The moment was drenched in horror—an unexplainable dread that seeped into the air and froze it still.
It was as if the world itself was holding its breath.
The atmosphere around them turned dense, heavy, and motionless, like a night wind passing through ancient graves.
Serin stood frozen.
The stillness pressed upon her chest like invisible hands.
Inside her, every sound was fading away—her heartbeat, her breath, even her thoughts.
Only fear remained, echoing through her like the toll of a distant bell in a dead city.
At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to go home.
The word home rose within her heart like the final spark in darkness—fragile, trembling, yet unbearably bright.
She longed to see the one she loved again.
She wished to return to the place where warmth still existed, where sunlight once touched her skin softly through the thin curtains of her small room, where laughter had once filled the air.
She remembered the gentle fragrance of blooming flowers outside her window, the faint rustle of wind through the garden, the sound of birds calling in the distance.
Memories came flooding back—the warmth of an embrace, the rhythm of familiar footsteps, the peace of belonging somewhere.
But all those things now felt impossibly far away, like dreams from another lifetime.
Then a voice echoed.
It came from the newly-formed mouth of The Creator.
That voice was unlike any human voice she had ever heard.
It carried a strange vibration, something that resonated deep within her bones.
It wasn't loud, yet it filled the space around her completely.
It wasn't harsh, but it bore the weight of something vast and unknowable—soft, yet ancient; calm, yet terrifying.
"I'm just… someone special."
The words slipped from the pale gray lips that had only moments ago appeared on the faceless figure.
The slow, deliberate movement of those lips was almost mesmerizing, like a living sculpture being formed before her eyes.
Every syllable lingered in the air, each carrying a faint echo that did not belong to this world.
It felt less like he was speaking aloud and more like the sound was rising directly inside her mind.
Every tone vibrated within her skull, filling her consciousness with the strange resonance of his presence.
"I know you're struggling," he said.
"I can help him."
The words sounded gentle, comforting even.
But underneath that calm tone, there was something—something unidentifiable.
It was a kindness that felt hollow, like a reflection of mercy rather than mercy itself.
He smiled—softly, faintly.
But that smile was not human.
It stretched across his featureless face in an imitation of warmth, as though it were an echo of what a smile should be.
It was beautiful in a way that was deeply unsettling.
A smile that felt cold to look upon, like moonlight touching the surface of still water in winter.
Serin's heart pounded.
She could not look away, yet every instinct screamed for her to run.
She knew it was an act—she could feel it.
That softness, that tender calm—it was performance, illusion, deception wrapped in grace.
Beneath that gentle exterior was something she could not understand, something vast and empty.
It was as if she was standing before a god that had forgotten what emotions were.
The Creator lifted a hand, moving with slow precision, as though even time itself bowed to his motion.
His fingers were long and pale, elegant yet unsettlingly still.
He pointed toward a direction—his movement smooth, deliberate, inevitable.
Serin followed the line of his finger.
Far in the distance, under the faint silver light of the moon, she saw a shore.
The sand shimmered softly, glimmering like powdered glass.
The sea beyond it was calm, its waves rolling gently, each crest reflecting a sliver of moonlight.
A faint wind brushed her hair.
The cool scent of salt filled her lungs.
But there was no comfort in it—only a haunting stillness that made her feel smaller with every breath.
She didn't know what awaited her there.
She didn't know if she could trust him.
She didn't even know why he was showing her the way.
But one truth burned painfully clear in her chest:
If she disobeyed him… she might not live.
Her legs trembled.
She inhaled slowly, trying to steady herself.
The air was sharp and cold, sliding down her throat like ice.
Every step she took forward was heavy, hesitant.
Her boots pressed into the damp ground, the sound of her footsteps nearly swallowed by the wind.
The forest around them seemed to watch.
The trees stood unmoving, their shadows long and strange beneath the pale moonlight.
Even the sound of insects was gone.
Only the whispering of the wind filled the void—a low, continuous murmur that sounded almost like a voice.
Just before she turned away completely, she looked back.
Her eyes met the faceless being once more.
"Thank you… special one."
Her voice trembled as she spoke.
The words were soft, fragile—barely louder than a breath.
It was uncertain whether they came from gratitude or from the desperate instinct to survive.
In that moment, her tone betrayed the truth her lips could not hide.
Fear.
It lingered in every syllable, a faint quiver in her breath.
She could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon her—eyes that did not exist but somehow saw everything.
It was as if the whole world was staring through him.
She turned away, taking another step.
Then another.
Her figure began to fade into the distance, dissolving into the moonlit haze that covered the sand.
The sound of the waves reached her ears—slow, rhythmic, steady.
It reminded her of a heartbeat—soft, distant, yet alive in the silence.
The Creator simply watched her go.
He made no move to follow, no word to stop her.
He only stood there, motionless, his presence vast and incomprehensible.
The black umbrella floating behind him shifted slightly in the wind, its surface catching a faint glimmer of light.
For a moment, it looked like a shadow alive—swaying, breathing, existing between this world and another.
And when Serin's figure finally disappeared beyond the horizon, he too was gone.
No footsteps.
No sound.
No shadow.
Only emptiness remained—an absence so complete that even silence felt heavy.
The wind continued to blow, softly, endlessly—
like the quiet sigh of the sky itself.