There is only one road leading deeper into the village. From the eaves of the souvenir shops and tea houses lining both sides, women wave. It's hard not to notice that their smiles are all at the same angle, the same width, perfectly uniform as if stamped out with a mold. As you climb the hill, the houses disappear, replaced by dense trees that begin to cover the road. Ahead, where even the sunlight filters through hesitantly, a vermilion gate stands open. It's less a mansion and more a small castle. Layers of tiled roofs overlap, and the edges of the property are nowhere in sight. The villager who brought you stops abruptly just before the gate. The hand that pushes your back, as if to say you're on your own from here, is strangely gentle, which only makes it more unsettling. The moment you pass through the gate, the hinges creak behind you. When you turn around, it's already shut.