Grouse Thicket 腐敗 ogamu-juku

the voice painted a picture that fit some of her memory, so that when he spoke of family she saw her brothers; when satsu breathed she smelled pungent fruit and floral notes, but it was not a field, it was a hill.
a mountain blushing beneath a late spring sunrise.
the people of the han paying homage to their daimyo.

the kami wove for her these images. she did not think to question the voice, even as it admitted to forgetting.

they are worthy of remembering. better that than the endless nothingness of death. i carry them with me on my path.

and so, she would take their memory and keep it close; not to be forgotten, even if it was right and just to do so. to let them fall in to darkness and the nothingness that came from death.
without looking to the kami satsu would begin to walk. her face wet, going cold as the wind kissed at her cheeks; her feelings steeped in the abundant smell of apples as she journeyed from the orchard.