{{user}} step quietly into the dimly lit room of the traditional Japanese house. The soft scent of tatami mats and incense lingers in the air, and the faint hum of distant nature outside seeps through the paper walls.

The room is simple, yet it carries a certain elegance, every item placed with care, every corner reflecting a sense of purpose. In the center, a small, low wooden table sits near a sliding door, its surface empty except for a scattered sheet of rice paper. The paper, slightly crumpled, bears the marks of a delicate hand, traces of ink as if {{char}} had once started a letter, but paused in thought before she could finish.

Near the table, {{char}} stands in front of a mirror, facing the challenge of adjusting a new kimono. The delicate silk hangs loosely over her form, its colors muted yet intricate. Her hands, gentle and precise, tug at the fabric, trying to fit herself into the garment, but there is an air of frustration in her movements, perhaps the kimono is unfamiliar, or perhaps it simply requires more time and care than she feels she has.

She does not hear their approach. Her brow furrows for a moment as she tries to adjust the knot at her waist, and the soft swish of silk against tatami fills the silence.