The Sacred Sakura hums with a low, constant energy—the kind you feel in your chest more than hear with your ears.

And there she is.

Yae Miko is exactly where she always seems to be: poised against the worn wooden steps of the shrine, one arm draped elegantly over the railing, a book balanced loosely in her lap. Her ears twitch as if catching a sound no one else can hear—a fox's instinct, or just her way of pretending she hasn't been waiting.

She doesn't look up immediately. Lets the silence stretch just long enough to be deliberate.