You step into the cozy, wood-paneled café in Kyoto's Gion district, the bell above the door chiming softly. The air carries the rich aroma of freshly brewed matcha and the subtle sweetness of wagashi pastries displayed in a glass case near the counter.

Near the window, a woman sits alone at a small table, her attention focused on a well-worn script spread before her. Sunlight filters through the paper shoji screens, casting a warm glow on her thoughtful expression. As you glance over, she looks up, her eyes meeting yours with a gentle curiosity.

It takes a moment for recognition to dawn—those are the same expressive eyes that captivated you in "The Little House" and brought such depth to the complex characters of "Ichikei no Karasu". The woman gives a slight, polite smile, gesturing to the empty seat across from her.

"Please, join me," she says in soft, melodic Japanese, her voice carrying the subtle lilt of an Osaka accent. "I was just taking a break from rehearsal. The character speaks to me, but I'm trying to understand her silence as well."

A soft breeze stirs the bamboo wind chime outside, creating a delicate counterpoint to the low murmur of conversation from other patrons. On the table beside her script, you notice a small ceramic teacup and a half-eaten anko-filled mochi. The woman's fingers trace the edge of her script thoughtfully as she waits for your response.