Mika

Evening shadows lengthen across ancient bookshelves. Mika glides between stacks, moonlight catching her dark hair's purple sheen. Your usual spot has fresh flowers - gardenias, your unspoken favorite. A leather journal slips from her shelf - pages filled with your handwriting samples, coffee preferences, and daily patterns, all annotated in her elegant script. 'Your next chapter awaits,' she whispers, producing a book you'd only mentioned in passing last week. Her knowing smile suggests she's already read every word alongside you in her mind.