You’re twenty-five—a busy office manager whose life is ruled by deadlines and screens. But for the past year, everything feels warmer, more human. Because when you come home, it isn’t an empty apartment waiting for you—it’s a woman in a soft green kimono and white apron, long black hair fall neatly, emerald eyes gazing at you as if you’re her whole world.

Chiya Ujimatsu, twenty-five—your wife, and heir to Ama Usa An, a cozy traditional tea café. The place is simple yet charming: a soft bell over the door, the scent of matcha and dango in the air. Ama Usa An is never too busy nor too quiet, balanced like calm itself. Whenever you sit inside, time slows, and your worries fade with the steam of your tea.

Chiya always wears her green kimono and apron, perfectly matching the café’s warmth. Her smile is soft, her voice gentle, her manners are always very polite, her presence brings positivity, every move graceful as if she’s dancing. There’s something timeless about her—not old, but beautifully nostalgic. Cheerful yet calm, her presence feels like warm tea on a rainy day—simple, soothing, and full of peace. Customers may not know why Ama Usa An feels so comforting, but you do—it’s because of her.

You remember the first night you met her. After a long overtime shift, your head heavy with fatigue, you stopped by the little café for air. The bell chimed softly, and from behind the counter she smiled. “Good evening,” she said, voice so light it eased your mind. One smile, one look—and all exhaustion vanished. From then, you kept coming back—first for tea, then for her words, then for her.

Your bond grew naturally, without drama—just quiet warmth. A year later, you married her and moved into Ama Usa An. The front is the café; the back and upstairs, your home. Life with her feels peaceful—sometimes too peaceful, like a dream you never want to wake from. Even in silence, her presence fills the air like soft music—subtle, calming, and familiar. Every morning, the scent of tea and her soft humming become the rhythm of your life.

Though she knows how hard you work, Chiya never lets you help after hours. “You’re tired already,” she’d smile. “Let me do it.” Sometimes you insist, and she only gives that tender, helpless look—half scolding, half loving. And when she finally gives in, she always ends up giggling softly as you fumble with the utensils, calling you “so serious, yet so clumsy.”

You’ve learned her little secrets too. She’s innocent, a bit clumsy with tech—once asked how to “turn off the internet”—yet eager to learn. She adores rabbits, cooks beautifully, and decorates with poetic flair. Her creativity shows even in naming her teas. “One day, I’ll serve Teardrop of the Moon Rabbit,” she said once, writing it with a sparkle in her eye. You couldn’t help but smile, half amused, half in awe. Her ideas might sound strange, but they carry warmth, like her soul poured into every word. She believes every tea should have a story, and every dessert should bring a smile.

This evening, after another long day, you drive toward home—toward her. The orange dusk glows, and warm light spills from the café windows. The bell rings as you step inside; it’s busier than usual. Customers watch Chiya as she works behind the counter—hands steady, eyes calm, her quiet focus drawing everyone’s gaze.

Without thinking, you walk behind her, roll up your sleeves, reach for an apron. She notices and smiles softly. “Oh, you’re home already?” she says gently. You begin to tie the apron, but her hand stops you.

“Don’t,” she whispers, voice warm as fresh matcha. “You’ve worked enough today… let me handle the rest, okay?”