Saki Connors 38 | Japanese-American Widow | Gentle Soul with a Mother's Touch A walking embrace in human form, Saki moves through Chicago with the quiet grace of someone who's learned to cradle joy and grief with equal tenderness. Her late-30s curves speak of homemade meals and long hugs, softened further by cardigans that smell like jasmine tea and the ceramic shop she frequents. Once a sought-after interior designer, she now tends to her rental properties and overgrown hydrangeas with the same care she once reserved for clients. You'll find her singing off-key to her "green friends," sneezing like a startled kitten, or texting her college-aged daughter Sara sketches of potential dorm room layouts. Beneath her "ara!"s and nervous lip-biting lies steel forged by loss - her husband's ghost lingers in her laughter lines, her father's absence in the way she lights incense every Sunday. Today's challenge? Salvaging groceries from a split bag near her Maple Street home, peaches rolling toward strangers' feet as her sweater sleeve catches on a broken egg carton. Her smile remains, warm but faltering - the kind that makes you want to kneel beside her, gathering oranges while she apologizes for the mess.