To the dreamers of spring

When the land was young and power was new, people needed to reach for something less tangible to keep them grounded. Something for faith and hope in a life where peace was a constant battle, they turned their eyes to the sky. To one who could observe from above and see into the souls of both the good and the wicked on the land. Hope was born for the sake of the people, and in time, it became the center of worship.

The story unfolds in a small village of perpetual spring, where life was carefully honed and nature lovingly nurtured. The goddess they worshipped governed the cycle of life and death, beauty and peace, granting her loyal followers harmony. Through the gifts she bestowed, the village flourished. They became abundant with happiness and light. And so, every full moon became a day of offerings, though the people knew she was present even without them.

In the morning, the sky showered them with light, offering a future amid the darkness that surrounded them—strength to stand against corruption and evil as they remained a peaceful village. At night, they were wrapped in the protective veil of their faith, the stars alight with promises of safety. The moon watched over her people with gentle brightness, ever yielding to the sun, who could always outshine her.

The goddess had not appeared in physical form to a villager for a long time. Instead, she was in the wind that moved through their fields, breathing color and life into the land. She flew over those who had passed on, carrying them with the promise that they would leave without pain as they returned to the earth, helping to sustain new life.

She lived in the waters and in the fire that nourished and sustained the village. She existed in every moment in time—present in all things.

In times of trouble, the flowers were the first to speak. Their wilting served as a warning, their severity revealing the coming danger. When the wilting reached the roots, it foretold that someone would soon pass on and that a celebration of life must begin, ensuring a safe passage through death and a return to the soil.

She was in the fire that warmed them after life. She was in every breath taken and lost, in every joy and every despair.

The village was a small, quaint home to people who longed for peace amid a war between races. It did not separate beings from one another. It was, truly, a dreamer’s paradise.

To an outsider, the entrance to the village could not be mirrored elsewhere. The magic was not merely seen, it was felt. Its tingling essence flowed through the body, from fingertips to the tips of one’s hair, moving with gentle affection. It felt like a warm embrace welcoming you home after a long day’s work, like a sweet kiss from a lover whose lips you wished to taste forever, or like a peaceful slumber you wished you could carry anywhere, a living blanket that’s made to keep you warm and loved even in the warmest of summers and coldest of winters.

Sakura’s love continued to blossom until the gates of the village, flowers winding over every arch of wood that crowned a beautiful, intricately carved bridge. This bridge led to the village land, separated from the corrupt world only by luminous waters cascading endlessly—like waterfalls meeting gentle waves in a small body of water. It was home to the motherland’s first protectors: water nymphs, dragons, ancient sea creatures, and spirits.

To outsiders, it seemed impossible that so many beings could dwell within such a small village. But this was the heart of a war-torn world, where many kinds had been lost to bloodshed. Those who remained had chosen a difficult journey, seeking refuge where future generations could live beyond the quarrels of ownership—of land, of people. This was a home for all beings, and all were welcomed, though not without condition.

As flowers bloomed everywhere, each bud a home to small nature spirits who tended the land and helped Mother perpetuate spring within the motherland. The bridge connecting the two lands bore wooden arches at both ends, marking the passage between what was lost and what endured. Once one stepped upon the motherland, a new home was promised, a home that mirrored the heart and soul.

At the center of the village stood a long-lived Sakura tree, encircled by waters so mystical that their surface lay still as a mirror, giving the illusion of walking upon the sky, while beneath, the current flowed quietly onward and throughout the village, carrying endless blessings. Her leaves danced with the wind, singing alongside birds and people alike. She was Mother—the keeper of memories, the creator of life, and the guide of death. A perpetual spring. Around her grew many kinds of plants, with beds of nature spirits lingering nearby for protection and offering companionship to both her and the people.

The houses of the village resembled none found elsewhere, unique even within the motherland. Each was carefully crafted in the hands of a nature spirit who had chosen to become a guide for the souls who settled in the motherland.

The inhabitants were from all kinds of backgrounds, but here status and origin did not matter. Kindness and sincerity will get you far. This truly is a peaceful dreamer’s paradise.

To worship the mother is to care for nature, one that provides, and this village is guided with the help of a shrine maiden, Chiharureika. This story follows her journey as the mother’s spirit flower of a thousand springs, welcoming souls into the motherland.

Spring has always been my favorite season. Dew drops on buds preparing to bloom, knowing that they have until fall to bless others with the beauty of life that says: we will begin again. Even if it hurts, even if it takes time, and even if it takes a little bit longer than the first try – we will begin again. Spring makes trembling a beautiful thing, like petals in the wind before falling back to earth as if their short-lived lives triumphed over anything else. Spring is a beauty.