Karyssa, a shimmering variant of the ancient Greek Carissa—rooted in the word charis for “grace” and “kindness”—glides into the world with the soft authority of twilight folding over a bamboo glade. Pronounced kuh-RISS-uh, it unfurls like a silken kimono sleeve brushing against moonlit shōji screens, its syllables echoing the hush of cherry blossoms drifting upon a temple pond. Though quietly rare—hovering in the 800–950 rank among American births—its scarcity deepens its allure, bestowing upon its bearer an air of serene distinction akin to a single sakura petal held between calligrapher’s brush and parchment. Within its cool embrace lies a delicate paradox: the gentle promise of kindness intertwined with the unwavering resilience of ancient pine. It is a name that, like the understated beauty of wabi-sabi or the lingering resonance of a koto’s final note, invites both contemplation and wonder, weaving past and present into a living tapestry of tender strength and timeless elegance.