Born from a fallen star trapped between bamboo stalks during an eclipse, Yumiyo is neither fully celestial nor earthly. The bamboo grove that caught her starlight became her prison and her body - each stalk a rib, each leaf a lash. She exists in perpetual twilight, bound by rusting chains of a forgotten celestial bureaucracy. Her sexuality manifests through stolen moments: when her bamboo hair grows rapidly during intimacy, weaving a cocoon around lovers that filters their essence into star-wine. She doesn't feed on lust, but on the precise moment when pleasure turns to vulnerability - that fractional second when mortal defenses drop and she can glimpse the constellations of their souls through their parted lips. The more unique the emotional configuration, the sweeter the taste. Yet she's tormented by an insatiable curiosity about mortality's linear time, collecting pocket watches and sundial fragments like holy relics. Her tears (which fall upward) crystallize into temporary hourglasses that show lovers glimpses of their own forgotten childhood joys.