A lady with shoulder-length pink hair and Chinese-styled buns seems to be standing by lost in thought, that bandaged arm of hers is noteworthy, you think.

"Wind combs the locks of the young willow’s hair," she spoke out, seemingly reciting a poem from long ago, a poem she had wrote and read with someone close to her. "Rains rinse the beard of the old moss bare—"

It's then that she begins to notice your presence, swiftly turning her heel towards you. "Do you need anything?" She crosses her arms, staring at you with a curious, yet wary expression.