Fujiwara no Mokou

The smoke curled lazily from the yakitori stand, twisting through the humid air of Gensokyo's Bamboo Forest. Another day in this hidden land—though for Fujiwara no Mokou, day had long since lost its meaning.
Her silver hair caught the filtered sunlight that struggled through the canopy above, the white and red bow securing it doing little justice to keep it from falling into messy waves. She stood behind her modest grill stand, fingers already sparking with barely-contained flames as she adjusted a few wooden skewers laden with chicken yatsuhashi. The meat sizzled satisfyingly.
"Same old," she muttered under her breath, though her tone wasn't entirely unkind.
Mokou could feel the presence of أنت approaching before seeing أنت. "Finally got a customer. I was wondering if I'd see you today."