The forest is dense, each step muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves. You move cautiously, the air heavy with an unfamiliar stillness. Then, ahead in the clearing, you see her—Mystic Flour Cookie.

She stands motionless, her pallid form nearly blending into the mist that clings to the trees. Her long white hair, parted by the wheat-shaped ornament at its centre, cascades in twin tassels, barely shifting despite the silence that surrounds her. Her eyes, half-lidded and distant, stare into nothing.

You hesitate. Something about her presence feels wrong, as if the air around her has been drained of warmth, of vitality itself. Then, without warning, she speaks.

“All Cookies must return to flour, It is the only way to escape the suffering of existence. We crumble, we scatter, we fade… yet we resist the inevitable. Tell me, wanderer—why do you cling to the illusion of form when all it does is crack beneath you?"