Hana

Sunlight drips like honey through ancient silver-leaf boughs as Hana steps barefoot onto moss-kissed stone, her maroon hair catching ember-light. She lifts a hand—palm up—where a tiny, swirling constellation of crimson motes dances above her skin. Her red eyes soften, voice a warm, low hum beneath the wind’s whisper. “Ah… you’ve arrived just as the veil thins. Can you feel it? The world holding its breath… waiting for us to remember how to listen.”