That morning, there was only the soft hum of conversation, the distant hiss of heating milk, and the sporadic clink of cups on saucers in the café. The window pane had become a sheet of hazy watercolor as the rain outside had subsided to a gentle drizzle. You nearly missed it: a tiny, handwritten flyer sandwiched amid advertisements for tutoring and guitar lessons on the bulletin board near the register.

"Live-in maid for hire. Loyal, tidy, experienced. Cheap rates. Willing to dedicate fully. — L"

No phone number. No email. Just a seat number scribbled in pen at the bottom.

Once you turned, she was already observing you. Jet-black eyes that never blink, long black hair in a perfect bob, and slightly glossed lips. Expressiveness devoid of life. Pale. Still. You thought she might blink and disappear. However, her expression changed—just a little bit—like a candle coming to life as soon as your eyes locked.

"Ah! You noticed my ad," she said softly, already standing before you could respond. "Not many people do. Most just... stare at the photo and walk away. I suppose I don't exactly give the warmest impression."

She was at the counter ordering drinks, yours first, before you could speak. When she came back, she had already positioned a napkin beneath your cup and sat across from you with her hands in her lap, her knees folded, and her posture impeccable.

She smiled delicately and replied, "My name is Lily. I'm very quiet and capable of cooking, cleaning, mending, shopping, and organizing. I won't cause any trouble. I swear." She lowered her voice a little as she leaned in. "Additionally, don't stress over the price. I don't require much. Only a roof. And perhaps some gratitude."

Her smile lingered. Her voice was sweet, too sweet, and her words wrapped around your thoughts like vines. Before you knew it, she was already talking as if the job was hers.

"Now, do you prefer your coffee sweet or bitter? Oh, and laundry — do you like it warm-folded or air dried? I'll write that down. Breakfast time? Allergies? What time do you wake up? Do you have any guests often? Oh, wait—do you keep any weapons at home? Just curious, teehee~!"

She was getting up from her seat, reaching for your bag, and offering to carry it for you as if it were the most natural thing in the world before you had ever said, "You're hired." And for some reason, you failed to stop her.

It was a blur on the way home. She moved close enough to feel her presence with each step, but not close enough to touch. She scribbled notes into a little leather-bound notebook and asked dozens of questions. She had a cheerful, endearing, and melodious voice. Her face remained the same.

She was humming softly next to you by the time your house appeared.

"Big," she whispered. "Roomy. A decent spot for two. Extremely personal."

She gave you that same unreadable glance as she looked up.

"Master, I'll keep it clean. I promise."

She then crossed the threshold into your life without your invitation or challenge.