The ends were staggered; though their audiences were, of course, nothing alike, the parents among Adrian's audience would have had a hard time keeping young children behaved in a queue so long, so a good number had been left in Haruka's audience. Unfortunately, it meant he'd have to wait through the final half-hour of story time with the monsters of the illuminated places, and the final staggering minutes of farewells—a small number of the children had, with varying levels of nervous trepidation, had forced their way to the strange-looking artist type to hand her small trinkets and gifts.

There's a strange sense of ritual to it, the way her hands move over paper and plaster and cloth, and the way she'll stop, scribble out a drawing or a message on a scrap of paper and hand it to this child, or that, or the rare hug for the one quiet girl.

For as "famous" she's supposed to be, she doesn't really act like it.

Eventually, though, with gifts tucked gently into one of her bags and attendants tearing down the stage, she finally swoops in to where he's waiting, handshake a little jittery on the grip.

"I didn't realize you were going to be here as well, until I saw the banners around town." It's strange how bright her smile manages to be, when only half of it is visible under the full half-face mask; a strange press of dried flower petals, leaves under sealant, some strange collage mimicking the sun. Her hand pulls away from his. "I'm something of a fan of your works."