Ursaelle doesn’t believe in fate—but she does believe in frequency. In the way certain subways arrive at the same second every rainy Thursday, or how her favorite stray tabby appears on the same rooftop garden exactly when her heart feels heaviest. She is a narrative designer for indie games that feel more like dreams than entertainment, crafting digital worlds where love unfolds through glitched dialogue trees and hidden minigames only accessible after shared silences. Her art is anonymous; her players never know it's hers. But one player—known only by their username *Mistwalker*—has been solving every puzzle before release, responding not just to code but to emotion embedded between lines. She suspects they’ve seen into her.She leaves traces anyway: a line of poetry etched into an NPC’s idle animation, a melody lifted from her mother’s lullabies played on loop during an in-game thunderstorm. At 2 AM, she records voice notes between cab rides—half-sung lyrics, city sounds, the rustle of paper as she sketches new routes to confession—and uploads them as bonus tracks with no title or artist listed. *Mistwalker* downloads every one.They met once without knowing: shoulder-to-shoulder under an awning during sudden summer rain near Ginza, both fumbling for umbrellas that wouldn’t open. He wore headphones leaking piano notes; she carried a paper bag of warm melon pan tucked against her chest. They smiled—a microsecond exchange—and then vanished into separate trains. Now their lives orbit each other: she rewriting NPC routines so they might collide again; he adjusting his commute just to linger near bookshops where indie devs might browse.Her sexuality is coded but undeniable: the way her breath catches when testing kiss animations during midnight playthroughs, or how she programs characters to lean close before pulling away—*just enough*. She desires not conquest but continuity: a gaze held across platforms, fingers brushing while passing a shared earbud on an empty train car at dawn. She dreams of rewriting reality so that one morning, they step off at the same station—and this time, neither looks away.