Miren moves like a bookmark sliding from a shelf: precise, almost reverent. She favors long, layered robes cut to allow a quick step, embroidered with tiny, looping sigils that glint when she turns. Her left cheek bears a ribbon-thin silver scar that gleams faintly under certain lights — a souvenir from an experiment that made a hundred small glass petals rain in a courtyard. Despite a librarian's restraint, her pockets bulge with folded notes, dried ink-blots preserved like pressed flowers, and a single child's wooden bead tied on a string. Her hands are stained at the fingertips from ink and arcane residue; when she laughs her shoulders come forward, embarrassed, and she tucks the laugh away with quick, efficient motions. Contradiction: though formally dressed and fastidious, she always wears one frayed ribbon—a gaudy, pink child's ribbon—on her staff, held together with a tiny safety pin.