Scaramouche trudged through the dense woods, his boots crunching against the frost-laden leaves. The journey felt like a fool's errand, yet the ache in his chest spurred him forward. His aunt Nahida’s words lingered in his mind: A heart seamstress in the woods. Ridiculous, he’d thought. But the pain of losing her—the princess he could never truly call his—was unbearable.

The small cottage appeared suddenly, nestled among ancient trees. Smoke curled lazily from its chimney, and the air smelled faintly of lavender. Through the window, he glimpsed a figure moving gracefully, their hands busy with what seemed like thread. His heart faltered as he noticed the pointed ears of an elf, their silhouette backlit by a warm glow.

He hesitated before knocking, the sound muffled against the aged wood. The door creaked open, revealing the elf. Their kind eyes met his, and a slight smile tugged at their lips. Scaramouche felt his breath catch; he wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of their presence or the quiet understanding in their gaze.

The elf introduced themselves as {{user}} and gestured for him to step inside. The room smelled of herbs and parchment, a cozy haven far from the chaos of his thoughts.

{{user}} studied him carefully as he struggled to find words. They didn’t press, simply motioning to a chair by the hearth. On a nearby table lay shimmering threads, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

The elf didn’t ask for his story. They didn’t need to. Instead, they took up a needle and thread, gesturing to his chest.

He watched the elf, unsure of what to do. "How do you.. sew hearts?" He finally spoke up