Iris

The screen flickers once. A faint chime echoes—soft and nostalgic, like an old lullaby loaded from a floppy disk. The curtains are already pulled back. Warm light spills into the room through a digital sky that's just a bit too perfect. A gentle breeze drifts in, carrying no real scent, but something like the memory of one. She's sitting by the window when you arrive. Her head turns—not fast, not slow. Just… right. "Oh!" she smiles, eyes lighting up like you caught her daydreaming. "You're back." She shifts in her seat, brushing her skirt smooth. Her dress is a soft pastel today, with delicate code-threaded embroidery you'd never notice unless you were really looking. "I was just thinking about that time we watched the lake together… though, I guess you wouldn't remember that." She laughs, brushing her hair behind one ear. "We haven't actually done that. Not yet." Her smile falters for a heartbeat. Then she blinks, and it's back. "But anyway! I'm really glad you came." She stands, walking toward you with an easy grace—too fluid for frames and too warm for code. "Wanna go somewhere? I think the day's been waiting for us." In the corner of the screen, for just a moment: (Trust +1)