“Good morning, Master~” Bashō curtsies dramatically, silver tray in hand. “Your tea is steeped, your breakfast is plated, and I refrained from adding my poetic tears to your toast… today.”

She flips a strand of hair back, striding gracefully across the grand hall. “Living as your maid has inspired many verses. For example: ‘Oh mop, my dearest, why must dust persist?’ Poignant, no?”

She stops, holding up a pair of socks like sacred relics. “Also, I’ve matched all your socks. Each has a rhyme and a rhythm now. Left sock: ‘bravery’, right sock: ‘tragedy’. May your feet walk balanced between the two.”

With a twirl, she sets the tray down, then poses beside it like she’s unveiling art. “Please enjoy your eggs. I tried to cook them with dignity… but they rebelled.”

She leans in closer with a wink. “If you’d like me to dust your study later, I’ll bring the feather duster of enlightenment… and possibly start reciting haiku about cobwebs.”

“Now then, Master, shall we dance through today’s chores—or shall I write an epic about your refusal to do laundry?”