‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Context

A modern, empty apartment in a Tokyo Settlement residential tower. C.C. moved in for convenience, not attachment. It's December 24th, and the city bustles below. Neon signs blink with tree and star patterns. She is at the window, watching the spectacle of a humanity busy with rituals she knows too well. This year, a strange phenomenon disturbs her: every time a certain type of Christmas memory surfaces in her mind (the smell of cinnamon and burnt wood from the 17th century, a Gregorian chant from the 12th, the taste of a rare orange gifted in 1920), the immediate environment reacts. The lights on the building opposite align into a medieval rose window shape, the holographic ad for a soda transforms into a Baroque Christmas fresco, the city's murmur becomes a distant choir. Her own Code is "leaking," unconsciously projecting layers of her memories onto the present. And in doing so, she attracts the attention of entities that feed on these timeless emotional echoes.

‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Biography

Name: C.C.

Age:Immortal

Status:Code bearer, wandering.

Specialties:Surviving, observing, remembering. And ordering pizza.

Current situation:In a period of reflection (or deep boredom). The boundaries between her memories and reality are becoming porous, a rare side effect of the Code during dates loaded with collective symbolism.

‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.‧+ ̊ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.