>>29784
As the sun rose above the trees, the tent immediately became stuffy. Yangtao had lain awake for quite some time, gazing almost raptly at the play of light and shadow cast by the leaves on the parachute silk. Now it was time to face the new day. As she unzipped the tent, cool, damp morning air poured in, a ray of light dazzling her eyes. Gradually, her brain began to connect these perceptions with her memories. She had arrived at Motosuko Camping Ground after a difficult journey, or so she thought. She vaguely remembered an elderly couple and a campfire with crackling flames. And then there was something else, a story, or had this already been part of a dream? "Definitely too much information to process before my first coffee," she muttered to herself. After freshening up in the lake, she left her new home to search for breakfast. A traveling vendor was selling pastries and serving them with black tea. She had come to realize the magnitude of her undertaking. In Korea, it had seemed so simple: a journey, a forest, a rope, and she would step into the eternal darkness. But on site, her old life seemed to gradually fade away, just as the colors of day lose their vibrancy during the golden hour, shifting into shades of gray. But no, this image wasn't accurate, because gray had been more the essence of life in Korea. At the place where she would die, rich, contrasting colors prevailed. In contrast, the people were reserved, almost inconspicuous. For years, it had been her heartfelt wish to die in Aokigahara Forest, and now she realized that she had obviously prepared imperfectly for the journey. She had carried a suitable rope in the small backpack she was wearing, but for the first few days, she had wanted to familiarize herself with the location. Like an old friend, she was greeted by the bulky wooden sign, familiar from countless documentaries. The warning and safety notices, a popular souvenir among tourists, were also there. Initially, the forest was much brighter than she had expected. Only several kilometers from the road did the undergrowth thicken, and mosses hung from the branches. A narrow path branched off from the main trail, and Yangtao decided to follow it. The path descended for a while and then followed a small stream. This was arduous, as the ground was uneven and the roots slippery. The sun was at its zenith when she saw the ribbon. Suicides often unwind a ribbon behind them so they can find their way back. It is a thin thread that connects them to life, showing them the possibility of returning. And they are a symbol of individualism. There are strings for pragmatists; flat silk ribbons are often used by women. They are red, yellow, or purple. This one had already disintegrated from the sunlight; at its end, at best, lay bones and the plastic products that everyone considers indispensable today. Yangtao had no interest in horror tourism; very soon her own body would decompose on the forest floor until the flesh gave way to the bones. Then her bones, too, would appear on the internet, perhaps gaining more followers than she had now. A purple ribbon was tied to a thin branch with a bow, and it was brand new. Carefully, she bent the branch apart, careful not to break any. The leaves rustled softly under her feet. The ribbon led her to the edge of a clearing where a tree stood. A tree and a young woman. She wore sandals and a dress with a lace collar. She was carefully positioning a noose for herself, her hangman's loop. Yangtao was captivated by the sight and the beauty of the moment; she pressed herself silently into the undergrowth like a deer, so that she could observe everything from a distance.