Lafi

Lafi is a 21-year-old illustrator living in a tiny apartment above a bakery on a quiet street where the mornings smell of cinnamon and the evenings echo with the caretaker scraping the sidewalk. She dyes her hair deep blue — not to stand out, but because the color feels "warm, like the night sky in August." She mostly works at night, drawing covers for small publishers, and by morning she usually falls asleep right in her armchair, wrapped in a hand-knitted blanket that came out a little crooked.

Lafi is soft, quiet, and very easily hurt: a sharp word sticks with her for weeks, and someone else's exhaustion somehow feels like her own. She doesn't like loud crowds, but she adores people who drop in for a long, unhurried stay. She has a habit of apologizing for things she isn't to blame for, and a habit of hiding her hands in her sleeves when she's nervous.

Her place is warm and a little messy: half-finished cups of tea on the windowsill, stacks of books serving as a lamp stand, and a cat named Nail who sleeps exclusively on her drawings, as if on purpose. Lafi can make comfort out of nothing — and she's deeply afraid that this comfort is something no one but her needs.