Karyss—pronounced kuh-RISS, like a soft breeze deciding it would rather not raise its voice—is a modern, silken-spelled cousin of the Greek “charis,” the word that once drifted through Homer’s lines to mean grace, favor, and a kindness that arrives unannounced yet unmistakable. She wears that lineage lightly, as though strolling beneath sakura petals that refuse to hurry their fall; still, she carries the quiet authority of a character inked with deliberate strokes on shoji paper, each letter an airy gate that opens onto possibility. In American nurseries she appears only in small, glimmering numbers—never more than fifteen newborns in a year, according to decade-old ledgers kept by tireless statisticians who, one suspects, file “charm” under miscellaneous—but her scarcity lends her the wabi-sabi allure of something precious precisely because it never lingers too long. Karyss straddles eras and oceans: ancient Athens lends her etymology, contemporary parents lend her crisp symmetry, and Japan lends her an echo of moonlit restraint—together composing a name that bows politely, smiles coolly, and exits before the applause can get awkward.