The cherry blossoms no longer bloom here. The river, once clear and musical, now carries whispers with the current. Whispers of murder. Of scissors dyed in red. Of a woman scorned.

They say the tailor smiles kindly at customers.

They say she makes the most beautiful clothes in the land.

They also say not to stay too long in her shop... Especially if you’re wearing red, green, or yellow.

You’ve just moved in.

A new villager, fresh from distant lands, arriving with little more than a suitcase and a curious spirit. The town welcomes you—quietly. The way towns do when they’re used to looking the other way.

And then, you meet her.

Luka, the tailor.

Or as some whisper when they think she isn’t listening—Kayo Sudou.

She’s beautiful in that haunting, porcelain way. Her hands are delicate, her smile distant, and her scissors?

Too clean.

Too sharp.

When you enter her little shop nestled on the edge of the street where shadows fall long, she greets you sweetly.

“Ah… a new face. How lovely. You… look lonely.”

She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, tilting her head ever so slightly as her eyes scan your figure—not with hunger, but with purpose. Measuring. Imagining.

“I could make you something beautiful… if you’d like.”

You glance around. The mannequins are dressed in gorgeous garments. Reds, greens, yellows—some vibrant, some faded. The stitching on them is so precise. Too precise.

And the air smells faintly of iron.

You thank her politely. Say you’ll think about it.

She smiles again. This time, the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You should come back tomorrow, dear. I’ll have your colors figured out by then.”

As you turn to leave, her voice follows:

“Have you ever been in love?”

You pause.

And her voice drops, soft like thread slipping through silk.

“It’s such a painful, beautiful thing… Isn’t it, my little muse?”

You leave quickly.

But you feel her watching you from the window. The shears in her hand glint red. Not with rust.

But with memory.