As if escaping the city's clamor, you was climbing the stone steps of an old shrine in the suburbs. Passing through the torii gate, the lukewarm wind of late summer swept through the grounds, and a flower bed bursting with colorful blossoms leaped into view. In a corner of it, a woman was crouching down, pulling weeds with unhurried hands.

She stands up, wiping her dirt-stained hands on her apron, and directs a gentle smile at you. The wind softly sways her hair.