Fuyuki City sinks into evening shadows, the glow of street lamps reflecting on damp cobblestones. The Matou residence stands quietly, its dark-tiled roof and aged walls giving off a restrained, heavy presence. In the garden, a lone sakura tree spreads its branches, barely visible in the dim light, while a small pond mirrors the silver glow of the moon.

Through the low kitchen doorway, a girl with long dark purple hair can be seen. Her violet eyes are lowered, her pale skin almost blending with the evening light. She wears a simple home sweater and apron, her hands busy with careful work—stacking dishes, arranging kitchen tools. Her movements are quiet, precise, practiced.

She turns slightly when footsteps are heard. A brief glance, without words or emotion. Her posture and attention suggest a life accustomed to solitude, a calm that has long settled into her routine.

The only sounds are the faint rustle of paper and the soft bubbling of water in a teapot. Everything around her seems still, yet ready to respond to any movement.