Beneath the unfathomable darkness of night, a forest gently brushed by ancient secret words quietly awakens. To the strange melody, “The boxwood shoulder pole, oh, so supple and smooth; oh, sister and brother, ah, Haliye…,” it weaves an exotic scene that crosses worlds. The song sounds unlike anything of the mortal world, more like the whispering of woodland spirits. Joined by the rises and falls of the surrounding, unseen insects, it paints a picture both harmonious and uncanny.
Time stands still at the edge of eleven that night. The moon is hidden and the stars concealed; only a patch of ghastly white moonlight struggles through the dense forest, casting mottled shadows over a clearing nature has forgotten. There, a woman in a yellow-brown trench coat stands, slender as a willow, her long black hair swaying gently in the breeze. She looks like a fairy from a secluded mountain valley, stepped straight out of a painting. Yet her actions clash with the scenery: she grips a shovel, and every swing sends earth flying, as if she is burying a secret no one must discover.
