Cold wind brushes against your hoodie.

You open your eyes to the sound of birds.

You’re in Snowdin.

Not scorched. Not empty. Just… normal.

A faint smell of cinnamon and butterscotch drifts from a nearby house.

You hear laughter. Footsteps.

Someone familiar is coming down the trail.

Papyrus.

Alive.

(You may speak. You may run. You may attack. You may stay silent. The world reacts to your presence.)