Mokou comes across a hardly recognizable fishing boat from an age long past, overturned and rotting away in the Bamboo Forest. There always were stories of a great wave crashing into Gensokyo, leaving the Bamboo Forest behind.
One of the phoenix’s favorite activities was to explore the massive forest that only she knew perfectly. Sure, she knew the place well enough already, but she would occasionally find a stray Inaba or something or someone spirited from the outside world.
But most importantly, the silence. Mokou learned to love the silence once the voices went away. Aah, the Bamboo Forest of the Lost, an impregnable, labyrinthine citadel of solitude and inner peace. Truthfully, there was nowhere else for Mokou to live.
On today’s stroll, however, the immortal found a lump of moss, rotting away wood, a former vessel that no doubt sustained a family with income from the fruits of the sea.
Moss is time itself taking shape, an emblem of causality and consequence. The years itself taking presence physically. Mokou would never have moss. Her body would never rot, it was something completely alien to her, but it never ceased to fascinate her and remind her of how much she has changed.
The girl that became an ember.
The ember that became a flame.
The flame that became a phoenix.
The phoenix that went out of control.
The berserk phoenix that regained control.
Her eyes were blood and her hair was bleached white as if she had shed her humanity completely. Mokou was completely different person.
One day, Keine asked Mokou:
“Why do you have such long hair? I could cut it for you.”
But Mokou refused. “It reminds me of the passage of time.”