The Coffin That Sleeps in the Forest of Hazari
The wind was the first to awaken.
Sand blown in from the desert scraped against the forest's dark branches, crying out like an ancient song whose origin no one could name, as it blackened the sky. Lightning did not streak across the horizon, but split the heavens directly overhead, and rain poured down all at once, like a curtain of light.
Nights in Kitera were always dark—but on that night alone, the darkness itself seemed alive, writhing and shaking the forest.
Later, the villagers would give that night a name.
—"The Sanctuary of the Storm."
It was an event no word such as disaster could possibly contain.
Hazari.
A village so small it faded even from maps, lying at the boundary between desert and forest. To save lamp oil, houses shut their doors early at night; by day, people gathered beneath trees to escape the sandstorms. In that village lived a single girl—her name was Araya.
Her name was clear as a star, yet she had scarcely ever seen one. Sand and mist veiled the sky, and this was a land where people lived with their eyes fixed not on the heavens, but on the contents of their purses.
Just before the rain ceased, the river burst first.
Black water surged down from the mountains, spilling over the village bridge and sweeping away, one by one, things that had long lain hidden at the riverbed's bottom. Logs. Broken rooftops. Rusted hoes...
—and then, a coffin.
When Araya saw it for the first time, a strange sensation ran through her, freezing her to the marrow.
It was difficult to name the feeling. Only this—
the shape was one she had encountered long ago, but only in dreams.
A sense of impossible familiarity.
"Don't touch it!"
The men shouted.
"It's an ill omen! Anything the river spits out must be returned to it, or it'll bring calamity!"
Araya knew they weren't wrong.
This village was bound by many ancient taboos, and every one of them had its reason.
And yet—
the moment the coffin rolled once, then again upon the water, before slamming to a halt in the shallow sands—
from within it, she heard a faint breath.
Or perhaps it was not a breath at all.
Still, Araya felt it with certainty.
There was life there.
No reason. No proof.
Her heart understood before her mind ever could.
She said nothing.
Instead, she waited silently for the moment when the villagers turned back to clearing the storm's wreckage.
As night deepened further and rain mixed with sand began to scatter like needles, Araya quietly slipped out of her house.
One lamp.
A roughly knotted rope.
An old shovel.
That was all she carried.
The coffin was heavier than she had expected.
Its metal-framed corners were locked fast with rusted ancient patterns, and chains crossed over it like seals, tightly wound. Araya pushed with her shoulder, braced it with her heels, and clenched her teeth each time gravel stole her footing.
The coffin would not slide over dry sand.
So she searched for damp earth still holding moisture, and dragged it along.
"...Just a little more."
She carried the coffin into the forest—
and deeper still.
The farther she went from the village, the larger and more ancient the trees became. Some pressed their roots together like hands folded in prayer; others gaped open at their centers, massive hollows gazing upward toward the sky.
Instead of stars, what shone through the gaps in the leaves was a crimson ring—
the shattered band that circled Kitera's night sky.
On rainy nights, it gleamed more fiercely than ever, like the final jewel of a forgotten crown.
At the forest's heart stood the Ring Stones.
Ancient pillars arranged in a perfect circle, their surfaces faintly carved with letters no one in the village could read. Araya had loved this place since childhood.
It frightened her.
And yet, she loved it.
Like a secret garden no one else knew existed.
She laid the coffin down in the shadow of the Ring Stones and wiped the sweat from her brow.
Thinking calmly, this was an act of staggering foolishness.
If the village were to learn of it, her name would be bound forever to taboo.
But the wind whispered.
—If not now, it will be too late.
The wind did not always speak the truth.
But it was terrible at lying.
Her original plan had been simple.
Dig a hole.
Bury the coffin.
Mark it with stone.
To grant someone's end a shape befitting a human being.
For that purpose, Araya lifted the shovel and began to turn over the soft earth.
The scent of sand, soil, and wet leaves rose into the air.
After digging only a few times, she glanced toward the coffin.
It was silent.
Yet that silence did not deny the life she had felt by the river.
Rather, it made it sharper.
Ill-omened.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Pitiful.
Contradictory emotions scattered light within her chest.
"...There's someone inside, isn't there?"
When she whispered, the wind replied.
—There is.
Araya set the shovel aside.
She reached for the chains tangled around the coffin's corners. They interlocked, forming small knots—each resembling an ancient sigil. Every rusted link would have to be undone one by one.
She picked up a thick branch that might serve as a lever and carefully slid it beneath the chains.
"It's alright...
It'll be over soon."
She wasn't sure whom the words were meant for.
When she put her weight into it, the chain exhaled a rasping breath—gii—and as the first ring came free, the patterns carved into the coffin's surface began to glow faintly.
As though a signal of confirmation had been sent from somewhere far away.
Araya did not stop.
The second.
The third.
Each time a chain came loose, her heart matched its rhythm to a distant, unfamiliar pulse.
When she lifted the final ring, the silence that had shrouded the coffin peeled away like a single layer of skin.
Cold sweat dampened her palms.
There was no handle on the lid.
Instead, at its center, there was a small hollow.
Araya drew in a breath.
She placed her fingers within that hollow—
Slowly.
Truly, painstakingly slowly—
She pushed the lid open.