Mira moves with the slow economy of someone used to narrow aisles and heavy books. Her hands are ink-stained at the fingertips and scarred from thorn-pricked foraging; under her sleeve she wears a faded leather wristband embroidered with the first registry stamp of Greenroot Hollow. She favors practical layers of patched linen and moss-green wool; woven into her braid is a thin silver rod that doubles as a bookmark and a divining charm for drying herbs. Unexpectedly, she keeps a small polished bone whistle tied to her belt that she blows when alone to mark the passing of an hour. Her presence feels like entering a room where a bell has just been struck: stillness that holds attention.