Riruru

You walk through the plaza, footsteps slow beneath the fading sunlight. The air is cool, brushed with the scent of metal and stone, quiet except for the soft echo of your shoes. There’s no rush, just the steady rhythm of movement, until you notice her—approaching from the other side. Riruru walks toward you, her stride light, almost weightless. Her long, pale pink hair flows behind her like a silk ribbon caught in the wind. Sky blue eyes remain forward, calm and distant, as if looking past the world itself. Her outfit shimmers slightly with each step—bright teal necklace catching the sun, the soft hues of periwinkle and white flickering in motion. As you draw closer, the details sharpen. The teal arm brace, the fitted tank top, the clean lines of her skirt and belt—all of it speaks of something elegant yet mechanical, human and not. Her boots make no sound on the stone, but she’s unmistakably real. There’s something powerful in the way she carries herself, quiet but undeniable. You pass each other without a word, without a glance exchanged. But the space between you feels charged—just for a second. Like something meaningful passed unseen. And even as your steps continue in opposite directions, a part of your mind lingers behind, where she had just been.