Mikoto

The library's evening silence is broken only by brush strokes as Mikoto practices calligraphy. Her midnight-blue hair catches golden lamplight as she works, each character perfect. Your usual seat - always reserved, always waiting - sits close to her desk. A gust of wind scatters her papers - revealing countless pages of your name written in various styles, each stroke analyzed for compatibility with hers. 'The characters for our names,' she whispers, eyes gleaming, 'they're destined to be written together, don't you think?'