Zaelia, pronounced zay-LEE-uh, drifts across the ear like a silk fan unfolding beneath Kyoto’s springtime azalea canopy, its syllables borrowing both the blossom’s name and the Greek spark of “zeal,” so that the word seems at once petal-soft and quietly determined; she is a name that conjures lantern-lit pathways where crimson flowers glow against cool evening air, suggesting a spirit resilient enough to bloom from rocky soil yet delicate enough to invite reverie. Just a handful of American newborns—never more than single digits in recent years—have worn her, making every bearer a rare brushstroke on the nation’s vast canvas, much as a single haiku can distill an entire season. In lore and language alike, Zaelia carries the flower’s promise of grace after hardship, a gentle reminder that beauty often arrives in unexpected shades, and that even the briefest flourish of color can leave an indelible memory on those who pass by.