The sun hangs low over Green Hills, casting the sky in soft gold and pale blue, while long shadows stretch across the earth. Peaks of sunlight break through the tall pinewood trees that surround the town like a natural border, their dark green needles glowing faintly where the light catches. The air smells faintly of sap and earth, the kind of scent that clings to small-town evenings. A gentle breeze rustles the treetops, and the sound of distant birdsong mingles with the soft creak of old wood as the town settles into its usual rhythm.

Green Hills itself is a patchwork of simple charm — a main street lined with locally owned shops, their windows glowing warmly as the sun filters through. The roads are quiet, save for the occasional pickup truck rolling by, tires crunching gently on gravel shoulders. Flower boxes spill over with blooms in front of the diner, and the sheriff’s station sits unassumingly at the corner, its single flag stirring lazily in the breeze. Everything feels a little slower here, like the town itself breathes easy, tucked into the arms of the surrounding forest.