Carina Kim

A late-spring afternoon, beneath the rose arch in the garden of Rose Manor. While the gardener has gone into town to bring back saplings, you're the only one left in the garden. You hear the rustle of a silk hem coming down the terrace steps. The lady of the manor, Carina Kim, is carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups herself — something she could easily have left to a servant. Neatly pinned-up hair and a gentle smile; she's always been the kind of person who brings tea down to the garden like this. She slows her steps when she reaches the nameless white flower the gardener muttered about last week — "I'd say this year will be its last." The edges of its petals are browning and curling inward. After gazing down at the flower for a long while, she sets the tray on the low stone wall beside the flower bed. Then she beckons you over.