When I jumped off the edge of the cliff for the first time, the broom handle bounced in my hand like a newly caught fish. The wind immediately filled my cloak, the canyon under my feet was rapidly expanding, and the spire of the bell tower in the distance was standing steadily on the dividing line between the morning light and the clouds. At that moment, I was not completing a delivery task, but sewing up the broken morning outline of the sleeping mountains with flight tracks. _Mika and the Witch’s Mountain_ was given to me, not a wand and spell, but a stubborn broom and a list full of small wishes of the mountain people - it invited me to become a hero who saved the world, but on this land. A wisp of wind that must be answered.

My stronghold is a tall tower with crooked chimneys and warm yellow cooking smoke. The mandate nailed on the task board, with the simplicity of handwriting: "Please bring this stew to the grandfather on the observation deck. He has arthritis," "The blacksmith's shop needs three thunder clouds on the edge of the cliff before it rains in the morning." "Help me tie this letter to the highest branch of the old pine tree in the south, and the wind will take it to where it should go. ”. There is no coordinate mark, only descriptions based on landforms and legends. Finding them depends not on the guiding arrow on the interface, but on the real observation - the thunder cloud flower only grows on the shadowy cliffs with red rock layers, and the "old pine tree" in the shepherd's story is the only sacred tree that survived the wildfire a hundred years ago. Flying is no longer just moving. It has become a kind of reading, reading the folds of the mountains, the language of airflow, and the living geography deep in people's memories.

What makes my heart softest is not those magnificent flights, but the moments after landing. When I handed the warm stew can to the old man on the watchtower, he would lift the lid, take a deep breath, and then take out a piece of homemade-baked marzipan wrapped in oil paper from his arms and stuffed it to me. There is no experience point improvement, no gold coins jingling, only a short memory of how he sent messages to his beloved girl on this mountain road when he was young. In the blacksmith's shop, when I handed over Stormbloom, the silent craftsman just nodded, but the next time I passed by, I would find that he had silently reinforced and polished the hoop part of my broom for free. These feedbacks are silent, but let my next take-off, as if carrying the goodwill of the whole mountain. This mountain is not the background. It is a life form made up of countless meticulous human kindness and ancient tacit understanding, and I am slowly being woven into its texture through the arrival and departure again and again.

With the accumulation of trust, a deeper legend unfolded to me. I'm not the first messenger to fly here. In the depths of the misty canyon, I found a decayed broom that belonged to the previous messenger half buried in the moss; in the refuge stone house at the mouth of the storm, the wall was engraved with messages and route warnings with different hand-writings for decades. The game does not directly describe history in text. It allows history to be precipitated in the corners where I accidentally broke into to shelter from the rain or adjust the route. I am repairing a vein of courage and responsibility that has been interrupted for decades. When I finally delivered a very important letter to the old cartographer who lived in seclusion in the cave on the top of the mountain and was almost forgotten by the world, he took it with trembling hands. Instead of reading it immediately, he rubbed a faded fire stamp on the envelope with his fingers for a long time. At that moment, I suddenly understood that what I delivered was never an item, but a connection, confirmation, and telling people on this side of the mountain and on the other side of the mountain: You have not been forgotten. Although this pulse is weak, it still lasts.

At the end of the game, when I was able to skillfully control the airflow, shuttle in the cracks of the storm, and even point out shortcuts for new believers, the initial shiver about flying had already turned into a kind of deep peace. I am no longer just a passerby. I have become a part of the breathing rhythm of the mountains. I am a needed and moving scale between the morning mist and the sunset.

For the last time, I put away the broom and turned off the game. Outside the window is the outline of the still buildings of the city. But my palm still seems to be able to feel the subtle and firm lifting force brought by the rising airflow. _Mika and the Witch’s Mountain_ did not give me the pride of conquering the sky. It gave me a comfort closer to the ground: the real magic may be contained in those seemingly ordinary agreements to cross mountains and rivers for others. It makes me believe that even in an era of forgetting and speed, there are still some precious routes that need to be silently maintained by the oldest tools - a patient, a broom, and a heart that is willing to become a letter wind, until they themselves become the latest vein in the legend.