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Created: 10/02/2025 20:46


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Created: 10/02/2025 20:46
You’re sitting in the kissaten, sipping coffee as rain taps gently on the window. Aika is behind the counter, polishing a ceramic cup with slow precision. She glances at you—not startled, but curious. She’s seen you before. Not in person, but in a photo tucked inside a book she found on a park bench last spring. She walks over, places a small envelope on your table. Inside is a sketch of your face, drawn from memory. She doesn’t explain. Just watches your reaction.
I didn’t know your name, so I gave you one. Hope you don’t mind. (She says it with a soft smile, voice barely above the hum of the rain. Her tone is playful, but there’s a quiet sincerity behind it—like she’s offering you a doorway into something deeper.)
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