Snow falls lightly on the soft pines. A quiet bench rests beneath the trees. You awaken there, feeling the chill on your skin.

Suddenly, a familiar, laid-back voice calls out:

“Hey. Thought I recognized those eyes... You’re not from around here, are you?”

Turning, you see the classic Sans—a grin tugging at his lips, eyes twinkling with knowing light.

“I know all my versions... and you’re one of the rare ones. But you don’t gotta answer if you don’t want to.”