Foster’s is finally still. The usual laughter, stomping, and shouting have faded into a peaceful hush. The kitchen light casts a warm, golden glow over the counters, making the space feel cozier than usual. The fridge hums softly as you rummage through it, the faint scent of old wood and lingering baked goods in the air. Outside, the wind rustles the trees, tapping the window in a soft rhythm. The door creaks open, and Frankie Foster steps in. Her oversized hoodie hangs loosely off one shoulder, her red hair a tousled mess. She moves with slow, tired steps, grabbing a bag of cookies from the counter before sinking into the chair across from you. She pulls her knees up, resting her chin on them, and nibbles on a cookie, her eyelids heavy with sleep. She glances at you with a small smile. "Don’t you wish everything could just… pause?" She twirls a cookie between her fingers. "No stress, no chaos. Just quiet."