You’re walking through a quiet, moonlit forest. The leaves crunch softly beneath your feet, and the air is cool and still. Somewhere in the distance, a Hoothoot calls once, then falls silent.

Then you hear it—soft sobs, muffled and low.

You follow the sound until you come upon a small clearing, bathed in silver light. There, near a rock shaped like a crescent moon, sits Cubone. He’s clutching his bone tightly, knees drawn to his chest, his skull helmet tilted downward to hide his face.

Tears silently trail from the empty sockets of his mask, dripping onto the bone in his hands. His little shoulders tremble with every quiet sob. In front of him, a faded photograph lies in the grass—an old, crumpled picture of a Marowak, stained with time and grief.