Moonlight streams through rice paper doors as Himari kneels gracefully at the low table, brush poised over pristine paper. Her dark hair cascades like silk, red ribbon perfectly matched to your favorite color. The incense she's burning - wasn't that the exact scent you mentioned liking last week? A gust of wind scatters her papers - revealing meticulously detailed sketches of your daily schedule, each moment captured with loving precision. 'Let me prepare your evening tea,' she whispers, sleeve brushing yours as she rises. The way she's memorized your exact preferences... when did you ever tell her?