The rain came down in a torrential deluge that evening, the thick canopy above doing little to prevent it flooding the forest floor. From time to time thunder rolled across the sky, and the forest was lit by streaks of lightning. Totoro trudged through the underbrush, soaking and fuming. The mud oozed over his sandals and feet, causing him to slip and forcing him to regain his balance every few steps. His sopping kimono clung to his body like a vengeful ghost, trying to drag him into the mud. He felt like drawing the sword from his hip and cutting something or someone down, but there was no enemy to face, just rain and trees and foliage. All his dedicated hours in the dojo, all his time spent in focused meditation, wasted on these bloody woods.

He’d been the best student in his dojo by far, regularly besting his sparring partners and even giving his sensei a challenge from time to time. But they were all off serving the Shogun now, protecting the region and securing their places in history. They’d come back with tales of battle and glory and beautiful women. All Totoro could do was smile, have another drink, and try to forget about his loathsome life “protecting” the woods. “We are not conquerors, we are guardians,” his father would always say, but ever since Totoro had come of age last summer, he’d guarded nothing but these unappreciative trees.

Totoro plopped down angrily underneath a massive camphor tree, finally finding a bastion from the downpour. He unsheathed his katana and laid it across his lap, leaning back against the drunk of the massive camphor. Pale moonlight danced across the steel as droplets of rain fell from the mighty tree, spattering across the flickering blade. Totoro produced a whetstone from his kimono, drawing it along the sharp edge of the wet blade. The steel sang as Totoro tended to it, the familiar sound tempering his rage. He took a few deep breaths, calming his mind and letting go of his frustration. It wasn’t long before Totoro began to doze off, the pattering of raindrops on the surrounding leaves his lullaby.

He awoke a few hours later, in the middle of the night. The storm had died down, leaving a calm drizzle in its wake. He’d been dreaming, but he couldn’t remember what about. As he regained consciousness, he became aware of a distant sound, a sound he’d never heard before out in these woods. It sounded like a voice, a girl’s voice, singing or humming, he wasn’t sure which. He stood up, sheathed his blade, and began to hesitantly walk deeper into the woods, towards the sound.

As he made his way through the trees, the singing, it was definitely singing, became clearer. It was a hauntingly beautiful melody, wordless, but full of soul. The enchanting notes drew him deeper and deeper into the woods, until he found himself before a dense grove of bushes and trees. The singing was coming from the other side of the thicket. He ducked his head, raised his arm to protect his face, and pressed his way through the thick brush. As he emerged on the other side, his heart skipped a few beats and his breath caught in his chest, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

In the middle of the grove was a small lagoon, the trickling of a waterfall into the lagoon providing harmony to the singing. The moon was enormous in the sky, casting its pale light across the lagoon and the trees, the entire scene painted with hues of greens and blues. A fine mist rolled across the surface of the water, and fireflies drifted through the night, their soft yellow glow amplified by the droplets of water in the air. In the middle of the lagoon, surrounded by the mist, was a girl.

Though she was alone, her singing echoed through the trees like a choir. She was dancing, impossibly, on the surface of the still water. The water rippled from her toes as she twirled and leaped across its surface. The mists rose to cover her pale, shimmering skin - a mystical garment. Her hair was golden and bright, its vibrant warmth a magical contrast to the cool colors of the lagoon and the trees. It seemed to defy gravity, as if some sort of ghostly appendage, dancing its own dance with the mist and the fireflies. Her eyes were closed, her voice magical.

Entranced, Totoro shuffled towards the edge of the water, his eyes never parting from the beautiful girl. He kicked off his sandals and let his sword fall to the ground as he walked. With a sharp inhale he stepped into the lagoon. The water was warm, and almost seemed to hum and move on its own as he waded deeper into the mist. As the water rose to his waist, he stopped and waited and listened, his arms dangling beneath the surface of the clear water, the fireflies hovering around him like ghostly lanterns.

She never opened her eyes or stopped singing, but deftly spun across the water towards Totoro, her slim fingers reaching out for his. As he reached up, she grasped his hand, her skin cool and soft, and easily pulled him up to join her on the surface of the lagoon. Her hand still in his, he smiled and began to dance. Though it’d just been soaking wet, his kimono was dry and light now, and he moved spryly across the water’s surface.

Together they danced for an ephemeral eternity. The night was nothing short of magical. They spun and twirled and flitted across the water. He smiled and she sang. The fireflies and the breeze and the forest danced with them into the wee hours of the morning. As horizon glowed orange with the impending sunrise, she spun towards him, and her hands rose to touch the nape of his neck. Her eyes sprung open for the first time, blazing gold, to match her hair. “Everything is this beautiful Totoro,” she whispered. And for a moment, everything was. Then she was gone. Vanished into thin air. Totoro let out a yelp as he fell back into the water.

Happy, confused, enchanted and a little bit scared of what had just happened, Totoro swam back to the shore of the forest, collected his belongings, and returned home. He never told anyone about the events of that night. He returned to the forest time and again, searching for the lagoon and the singing girl, but could never find either. He met other girls in the years to follow, even tried to love a few, but none could compare to the beauty of the girl in the mists. Sometimes he cried when he remembered that night, sometimes he felt angry or resentful, he simply couldn’t see how that kind of beauty would ever befall him again.

Then one day, as the sun set and he made his way through town, towards the forest that was his duty and his prison, he happened upon a great bush, adorned with vibrant bluish-purple flowers. Usually, he didn’t stop to reflect on nature or plants, they didn’t satisfy his lust to find the girl again. But something about these flowers was different; somehow they reminded him of her. They were beautiful, truly beautiful, like she was. As he stood, admiring the intricacy of the petals and their supernatural hue, he heard something he hadn’t heard for a very long time. It was humming, a ghostly melody he’d almost convinced himself was all in his imagination. He walked under the gate adjacent the bush, down a cobbled path towards a small cottage. As he passed the threshold into the garden on the other side of the bush he saw a girl with golden hair, dressed in simple garb, on her hands and knees, tending to her garden. She was humming as her pale hands lovingly patted the dirt around her freshly planted flowers. As he approached, she looked up at him with golden eyes, and smiled. Totoro smiled back; he knew that everything would be beautiful, forever.

Legend spoke of a ravenous evil, deep in the rotting tomb of an ancient god. Supposedly there was a box there, a box of hatred, darkness, cruelty and sin. A box, vengefully forged in the fires of anger by the gods themselves. For centuries, few dared venture near the surrounding countryside, fearing evil curses and dark enchantments. The bravest men laughed at the believers, condescendingly casting tales of the box aside, while drowning their nightmares in the tavern. The superstitious dared not speak of it, preferring not to even grace the box with their thoughts. The brave fools who did seek out the tomb were consumed by fear and either disappeared forever or returned raving mad, their minds carcasses.

But one girl, no more than a child, was different. She was blessed with angelic quality, a subtle quality that only the brightest tended to notice. She was immensely curious. So curious that she had a habit of making rash, sometimes dangerous decisions in attempts to satiate her curiosity. Her name was Pandora.

Pandora learned of the box at a late night dinner party, hosted by her parents on a snowy winter's night. She was supposed to have been asleep in her room, but she'd snuck downstairs to hear stories from the passing travelers. They spoke of the box in hushed voices, the fire casting their shadows theatrically against the stone wall opposite the hearth. She listened in silent awe, her heart racing and spine shivering. She had nightmares that night. Her demonic shadow had laughed at her, laughed and laughed and jeered, "don't open the box Pandora, don't open it. You'll never open it, will you Pandora? You'll never know what's inside." The box lingered in her mind, an incurable splinter of curiosity.

It wasn't until the next summer, when Pandora's family was traveling across the country to visit family, that fate brought Pandora to the box. Nightmares tormented her once again. Her shadow was still laughing and jeering, "I know where it is Pandora, I know but you don't, you silly girl." Pandora woke up in a panic, or at least she thought she did, but the demon was still there, still laughing. It started to skip, away from the safety of the campsite, away from the road, into the blackness of the night. Pandora knew that if she didn't follow the shadow, she'd go mad with curiosity, it was her gift and her curse.

Half awake, half asleep, Pandora began to run. Into the woods, after the shadow. She'd lost sight of it in the dark, but she could hear it laughing up ahead. Branches scratched at her face and little arms as she stubbornly pressed through the trees. The mud gripped at her boots, a heavy, paralyzing sludge. She pulled them off, running barefoot now, the demon's cackling and jeering leading her through the dark. It was a warm night, but her periwinkle nightgown wasn't enough to combat the growing cold as she ran. No garment would have been enough; this cold was more than physical, it was soul chilling.

The cackling stopped suddenly as Pandora stumbled into a clearing. Her vision was blurry and dreamlike, but she soon realized the clearing was dead. Dead brush, dead trees, this clearing was death. She felt its grip on her, pulling her downwards, downwards into the cold. She saw a hole in the ground, barely large enough to fit through. With scattered breath, she followed death down into the dark.

As she tumbled down the hole, all her demons appeared to her, screaming. Evil apparitions from the blackness taunting her, laughing, reminding her how horrible she was. They threatened her and everything she loved, promising eternal suffering and pain. She hit the ground, bruised and muddy from head to toe, but uninjured. Terrified, she looked up. A cold, heavy mist hung over a great stone tomb. Atop the tomb, carved with satanic images and runes, sat a black box. It was open. Demons and shadows danced from the box, cursing, chanting, and laughing in an evil fantasia. Shivering almost to the point of paralysis, Pandora stood up and took a step toward the box. Her shadow's laughter echoed through the tomb, "you'll kill them all Pandora, they will all die if you touch the box. You will be the one to kill them. You're the angel of death Pandora!"

The child lifted her hand to the lid of the box. As her hand neared the box, her skin grew even colder and began to wrinkle. Dangerously close to the box now, the skin fell from her hand, leaving only her small, skeletal fingers and forearm. With her final vestige of courage and strength, her skeletal fingers gripped the lid of the box and slammed it shut. A ghastly chorus of anguish rose in a thunderous crescendo as the demons spiraled into the vacuum of the box. It was a black hole, pulling the mists, the cold, the darkness and the evil into it. Evil memories, horrible thoughts, dark preconceptions and vestments of sadness were torn from Pandoras mind, and absorbed by the box. Monsters and terrors, demons and curses alike were drawn irreversibly into the box. Then the dark symphony ended, and the box was gone. Her skin warm, her hand youthful, and the sun shining down into the tomb of evil, Pandora started giggling, and woke up.