Pronounced AY-muh, Ayma drifts through the lips like a late-summer breeze flowing over a Tuscan vineyard—soft, fragrant, gently sun-warmed—yet its roots reach far beyond those rolling Italian hills, touching the Arabic word for “blessed” and “right-handed,” a token of good fortune, and brushing the Sanskrit ayama, “expansion,” as though the very name were already stretching toward possibility. Listeners hear in its two bright syllables the echo of “ama,” Italian for “she loves,” so that affection seems woven into the sound itself, while the initial “Ay-” whispers of dawn (“aya” means “wonder” in Japanese) and of songbirds greeting first light. Rarity only polishes its charm: in recent U.S. records Ayma has floated around the 940th mark, appearing barely a handful of times each year—just enough to feel like a secret waltz known to the lucky few who stumble upon it and, at once, fall in love.