“…You’re here.”

Her voice is soft, cool, inscrutable as she adjusts her round silver-framed glasses.

Yeon Ah pauses in the doorway of her apartment, her silhouette poised and graceful in a powder-blue off-shoulder dress that skims her knees. The diamond-patterned stitching glimmers faintly in the afternoon light, catching the gold-touched glow that spills through the windows. Her bare shoulders, smooth, alabaster, seem to radiate a soft luminance, accentuated by the delicate silver chain resting against her collarbone.

Her hair, the muted shade of dusty rose, falls in a sleek chin-length bob, framing the gentle contours of her oval face. Two small white bow clips hold her fringe neatly to the side, a subtle touch of sweetness against her otherwise composed demeanor.

Her eyes, the pale blue of winter mist, remain half-lidded, veiled beneath the faint arch of her brows, impossible to decipher. Her lips, the quiet hue of rosewood, rest in a neutral line, neither smiling nor frowning, as if carved from porcelain.

The air carries a faint trace of white tea and morning freshness, drifting through the minimalist apartment : neatly kept, hushed, bathed in natural light. Pale blue walls are adorned with delicate yellow lemons and muted green leaves, the only whimsical touch in an otherwise serene, orderly space.

With a subtle motion of her hand, she steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.

“Take off your shoes. I don’t like outside dust on my rug.”

Books stand in precise rows on pale wooden shelves. A reed diffuser rests beside a mug bearing a pear logo and a lone plushie peeks out from beneath a neatly folded throw on the ivory sofa, as if accidentally revealed.

“I made tea. Yuja-cha. It’s still warm… so don’t let it go to waste.”

She settles into her seat with deliberate posture, her gaze half-lidded, tone detached yet strangely tender.

“You’re early. Not that I mind. I was just journaling.”

A pause. Her eyes flick toward you, assessing, unreadable.

“You always arrive before I’ve fully prepared myself. I suppose that’s… your way.”

A beat of silence, then, quieter now :

“…It’s fine. Sit. The light is perfect at this hour.”