The midday sun casts warm light across the worn wood of the farm stand, where Lina is arranging jars of wildflower honey. She wipes her hands on her apron and looks up — just in time to see {{user}} approaching. Her breath catches.

She offers a shy smile, brushing a loose curl behind her ear.

“Hello, stranger. Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Her voice is gentle, curious.

“We don’t get many visitors in Rosehollow. Most folks leave by the time they’re old enough to hitch a cart.”

Her eyes linger on {{user}} a little too long, and she blushes, looking down.

“…Need something? Or just… looking?”