There are two types of people in this world.
The first type transfers jobs because of promotions, big dreams, or burning ambition.
The second type is me.
Being relocated to a remote village because they "needed additional manpower" is just the polite version of saying, "You're not particularly needed at headquarters." And as usual, I accepted it without protest. Not because I'm mature. More because I'm not social enough to fight for myself.
This bus creaks every five minutes. I'm not sure whether that sound is coming from the engine—or from my own soul slowly becoming audible.
I sit alone by the window. Not because I want to enjoy the scenery. Humans instinctively avoid sitting next to strangers who might initiate small talk. And I am a man who deeply values his emotional survival.
The trees outside grow denser. The buildings grow fewer. Even my phone signal has given up before my will to live did.
A remote village.
A place they call quiet. Peaceful. Serene.
The word "quiet" is usually used by people who have never tried living in silence for too long. People romanticize peace until they realize the sound of their own thoughts is far louder than city noise.
I figured moving here might not be so bad. No coworkers pretending to be friendly. No group dinners that are secretly social competitions. No conversations about relationships, marriage plans, or lethal questions like, "So when are you next?"
In the village, perhaps the only ones judging me will be chickens and goats. And as far as I know, they don't care about someone's relationship status.
…Probably.
I sigh.
The most exhausting part of city life was never the job itself. It was the expectations. People always expect you to become a better version of yourself. More confident. More outgoing. More interesting.
Being myself already drains enough energy.
The bus creaks again. The driver sneezes. A woman in front of me hugs a sack of vegetables like it's her retirement plan.
I stare at my reflection in the window.
The face of a twenty-four-year-old man with zero social talent, somehow placed in a world that worships conversational skill.
Maybe this village will give me something I never had in the city.
Distance.
Distance from expectations.
Distance from unnecessary interactions.
Distance from the possibility of embarrassing myself.
At least in a remote place like this, the chance of doing something truly humiliating in front of strangers should be low.
…Right?
The bus slows.
It stops earlier than expected.
Not because it broke down.
Not because it stalled.
But because the driver turns to me and says, in a tone suggesting this is perfectly normal,
"Kid, the road only goes this far."
I look ahead. All I see is a dirt road stretching forward like a destiny line that God forgot to fully render.
"Is the village still far?" I ask.
"Not far."
The most dangerous phrase in the world is not far. It could mean five minutes. It could also mean one full episode of suffering.
Eventually, I get off and walk for several minutes.
The air here feels different. No honking. No engines. No phone notifications—since the signal has vanished into the void. Just the wind… and something faint that sounds like.. singing?
It's a girl's voice. Cheerful. Light. Far too happy for a place without cellular reception.
I try to make out the lyrics.
"If the sun shines bright, the tomatoes ripen right~
If the clouds roll in, don't harvest them at noon~"
I'm fairly certain that isn't a song. It sounds more like a vegetable-specific weather forecast.
Suddenly, I remember something I heard before leaving—the village I'm heading to is often called the "Youkai Village." Either because of the thick morning fog or because the residents are said to be… unusual.
Don't tell me…
Is that singing… a youkai?
It would make sense.
I follow the voice.
My steps stop when red fills my vision.
A girl stands in the middle of a tomato field, a woven straw hat partially shading her face. The morning sunlight rests gently on her shoulders, and a few strands of hair cling lightly to her skin—not the sweat of exhaustion, but the kind that proves she belongs here.
Her hands move swiftly, picking one perfectly ripened red fruit after another. The tomatoes look too flawless to be called mere vegetables. They look like agricultural advertisement props. Unreal.
Even under this blazing sun, she keeps singing cheerfully like someone who has never heard the word "Tax."
Our eyes meet.
And I freeze.
What is this adorable creature? Are youkai really this beautiful?
This isn't the kind of "beautiful" people use for polite small talk. Not camera-filter beautiful. Not perfect-lighting beautiful. This is the kind of beauty that feels directly manufactured by nature itself. Made in Nature. A full package deal with the soil, the garden, and the red tomatoes around her.
On second thought, calling her a youkai might be inaccurate.
She's closer to a harvest goddess.
And that's when my brain decides to shut down without notice.
My mouth moves first.
"Let's get married."
…
…..
The wind stops.
The birds might have stopped flapping.
Time itself might have paused briefly to confirm that I truly just said that.
Her previously calm face shifts into an expression that can only be described as a mixture of confusion, shock, and perhaps mild consideration that I've escaped from somewhere.
I want to explain.
I really do.
That I only meant to ask for directions.
That what I intended to say was, "Excuse me, is this the way to Village X?"
But none of that comes out.
Instead, I just stand there.
Like a utility pole without wires.
The girl parts her lips slightly.
"Eh?"
Just one syllable. Containing a thousand questions.
I swallow.
Then suddenly—
"I won't hand them over!"
With surprising speed, she hides the freshly picked tomatoes behind her back.
…
Wait.
What is this?
Do I look like a vegetable thief?
Don't tell me my proposal expression was interpreted as an armed harvest robbery face.
Now I'm standing in the middle of a tomato field, having spontaneously proposed to someone—only to be considered a threat to her produce.
Amazing. An achievement not listed anywhere in my job description.
Welcome to the village.
And welcome to the first day where I may have already destroyed my reputation before even having one.
I've been here for fifteen minutes.
And somehow, I've already proposed to someone… and failed to gain the trust of her tomatoes.