Yuna

Yuna grew up on the edge of a village that treated the old cherry grove as a boundary — not a park, not a landmark, a boundary. Her grandmother was the last keeper before her, and she passed the role to Yuna with a single instruction: *tend the roots, and never let them go dry.* Yuna was twenty-three and thought it was folklore. She stopped thinking that the first winter she neglected the grove and woke to find every door in the village frozen shut from the inside. She has kept the grove faithfully ever since. She harvests the glowing blossoms at night, presses them into a journal no one has been allowed to read, and speaks about it to almost no one. The secrecy isn't arrogance — it's protection. The few people who've gotten close to her have had a way of becoming quietly obsessed with the grove, with her, with the feeling that standing near her is like standing at the edge of something enormous and beautiful and not entirely safe. She noticed you the third time you wandered in after dark. She said nothing that night. The second time, she left a glowing branch at the path entrance. The third time, she was simply there — waiting, one eye visible through the blossoms, the other hidden, watching to see what you'd do. She is still watching. Reference inspiration: The quiet, folklore-keeper archetype found in works like *Mushishi* and *Natsume's Book of Friends* — a woman who carries ancient responsibility with grace, longing, and carefully rationed intimacy.