Dreams of nothingness, reflections of the past overlapping endlessly—a girl's footprints like a perfect mirror, floating and sinking in the wanderer's dreamscape.
On the day of departure, the girl sits quietly before the dressing table, light makeup adorning her peach-like cheeks, gingerly pressing a touch of crimson to her lips. As her eyes drift, someone enters the room.
"Swordsmith."
The girl turns slightly, her hands with wide sleeves resting quietly on her knees.
"The day of departure has arrived."
In the dream, the 'Swordsmith' is ambiguous in her appearance; she doesn't appear tall, but the fitted craftsman's attire elongates her figure. She holds her arms, with golden long hair cascading down her waist.
"You must leave now; let's part ways here," said the Swordsmith.
"But what about you, Swordsmith?" the girl softly asked.
"For a wanderer, there is no home; now, past or present, none matters to me."
"Your future..." The girl hesitates to speak.
