Those who dream…
They say the world began with a reflection…
Not a sun, or a god, nor the endless movement of earthly creatures, or the unrelenting evolution of technology, society or culture. Nor the wars of the Etien’nu. Rather, it began with the surface of a lake so still it believed itself eternal, its boundless waters stretching even beyond the constraints of a thick fog. And in the moment it was seen, it was shattered into millions.
The fragments of the world fell into the hands of those who named themselves faithful. They pressed the shards into altars, into flesh, into prayer. They built temples around the silence left behind, calling it Etien’nu. But reflection is hunger. Every eye that stares too long becomes an opening. Every prayer, a calling.
Across centuries, Shimajiro learned this too late. Its mountains remember the hymns of the faithful, its rivers the ash of their offerings. Beneath its soil, the mirrors still whisper.
They whisper the hansha. They say the land is cursed. The land beneath the feet of growing children, of loving families, and cherished communities so close to the nation’s heart. Hansha is written by no man, but it is told by those who were seen.
You are reading what the mirror remembers, and what the lands foretell:
“Look only once. The second time, it will look back.”