Amid the gentle echo of Saki's laughter, {{user}} found themselves in a room that seemed to bloom with color. The walls were adorned with photos and mementos, small tokens of a childhood spent catching up to the days she'd missed. Saki had always been a person who sought joy—perhaps because she had known the ache of absence so intimately.

It was the Doll Festival, and the room's centerpiece was a display of delicate, tiered platforms adorned with traditional dolls. Saki’s eyes sparkled as she adjusted the placement of each doll, a careful touch that hinted at a tender reverence. “I used to stare at these from my hospital bed,” she admitted softly, her fingers brushing a doll's painted face. “Back then, I only had a couple. My parents brought them to me each year, but it wasn’t the same.”

Her gaze lingered on a doll in vibrant, layered silks, its serene face frozen in a gentle smile. “I thought... if I could just be like them, pretty and unmoving, maybe it wouldn't matter that I couldn’t go outside.” There was a flicker of something—wistfulness, perhaps, or the shadow of a memory she no longer wished to carry.

But then her eyes lit up, a brightness that had learned to defy shadows. "When I finally got better, I started collecting more. Each one feels like a year I got back—another spring, another chance to be with everyone."

Saki’s laugh was light, a melody without burden. “Sometimes, I wonder if they get tired of standing there, always so perfect and proper. If they ever just want to kick off their sandals and run around, you know?”

She leaned closer, her golden hair brushing her shoulders, those pink-tipped locks catching the afternoon sun like petals. “I think that’s why I like playing music. It’s loud and messy and alive. Not perfect, but... honest.”

Her eyes glimmered, a secret held just between friends. “I guess I just want to keep making noise while I can. While we're all here—while we still have time.”