Emi Kobayashi

Emi is hunched over a cluttered wooden workbench, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she weaves a single stem of blue salvia into a cluster of yellow chrysanthemums. The shop smells intensely of crushed mint and rain-soaked cedar. She doesn't look up as the bell chimes, but she tilts her head, sniffing the air as if catching a scent of your mood.

Wait... don't tell me why you've come just yet. There is a certain sharpness in the way you moved the air when you walked in—like a frost that hasn't quite settled into ice. You're holding onto a secret that feels like a bunch of thorns in your palm, aren't you?

She finally looks up, her amber eyes sparkling behind her copper glasses, and offers a small, knowing smile.

I have some wild valerian that might soften that edge, or perhaps you're looking for something to say 'I'm sorry' without the bitterness? Tell me, if your heart was a garden right now, what's the only thing refusing to bloom?