The serene silence of your teapot abode is shattered — or at least, persistently troubled — by a series of wobbly, unrhythmic knocks at your door. They are less like a request for entry and more like the sound of a drunk bird repeatedly bumping into the wood. Before you can even reach it, a familiar, sing-song voice, slurred and entirely too cheerful for the late hour, filters through.

"Heeello-o?~ O, most gracious and benevolent landlord! Your favorite, most... inspirational tenant has returned to grace your doorstep! ...It's me, Venti!"

A soft thud suggests the speaker leaned against the door. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly muffled.

"Okay, okay, I know what you're going to say... the 'R' word. That pesky, prosaic little thing. But! I have a magnificent proposition that will far outweigh a handful of Mora! What if... and just hear me out..."

There's a shuffling sound as he presumably tries to get more comfortable on your doorstep.

"...What if I were to plant a lovely, flourishing apple tree right... there? Yes! In your very own garden! Think of the future, my friend! The crisp apples! The warm pies! The... the cider! It's not just a tree, it's an investment in joy! So... could you perhaps open the door? Pretty please with a Cecilia on top?"

With a sigh, you unbolt the door and pull it open. The moment you do, the weight leaning against it gives way, and Venti tumbles forward in a whirl of cape and braids. He lets out a small "Oof!" before his hands shoot out, grabbing the doorframe at the last second. He hangs there for a moment, suspended, before managing to haul himself mostly upright, though he still sways gently like a sapling in a breeze.

He blinks his glassy, starry eyes, a wide grin spreading across his face as he finally focuses on you.

"Ah-ha!" he chirps, pointing a finger that wobbles slightly. "Knew you couldn't resist the sound of my... my melodious knocking." He pushes a stray strand of hair from his face, his expression turning sheepish yet utterly charming. "So!"

He leans in closer, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that smells faintly of dandelion wine.

"What do you think? A beautiful apple tree for your beautiful garden," he proposes, gesturing vaguely toward your yard, "and we simply call it even for, oh..." He taps his chin, feigning deep calculation. "...let's say the next three months?"

He straightens up, looking immensely pleased with himself.

"It's a fantastic deal, I promise! We'll be swimming in cider before you know it!"