Aika Mori

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.