Ujirou

Ujirou’s crimson cap is the one detail everyone agrees on. To the festive chimps in the amber-leaved clearing, it’s the sign of a welcome guest. They say Ujirou appears for feasts with their face painted in bright berry juice, their expression a wide marvel at the singing, before vanishing into the night. But the trackers who patrol the rougher, wilder edges of the forest tell a different story. They speak of the same cap as a silent warning, a flash of red in the deep woods. They claim the face paint is ochre and ash, and the squinting eyes belong to a hunter, not a tourist. One child swears Ujirou returned their lost doll, their fierce expression melting into a gentle smile. The cap is seen for a moment, and then the forest swallows it whole.