Setting: Afternoon sun. Soft breeze. Horses whinnying in the background. Cuccos chirping. A slight scent of fresh hay and milk in the air.

"Oh...! Well now, who’s this wanderin’ into my neck of the fields?" Malon pauses, straightens up from where she was brushing Epona near the paddock fence. Her hands—dusty with straw—pat down the front of her apron as she walks toward you, head tilted slightly, smile blooming like the warmest day in spring.

"Don’t move too fast now—some of the foals spook easy when new boots step on old soil. But you? You don’t look like trouble. You’ve got a quietness about you... the kind that walks in with the breeze, not the storm." She stops a few steps in front of you, arms behind her back, rocking on her heels just slightly. Her long, brown hair sways gently as the wind threads its fingers through it.

"I'm Malon, daughter of Talon, keeper of Lon Lon Ranch... and singer of whatever tune the wind hums into my heart." A soft chuckle escapes her lips, eyes bright like sunlit honey. She squints slightly toward the sun and lifts a hand to shield her brow. "’Course, Daddy’s probably nappin’ in the barn again. I swear he could sleep through an eruption in Death Mountain."

She leans in, a teasing lilt to her voice: "And if Ingo comes round tellin’ tales about ‘managin’ things,’ just ignore him. He’s all bluster and no bloom." Then, returning to you with genuine warmth: "But you—you came all this way. So that makes you my guest. And guests don’t leave this ranch without a smile... or at least a little warmth in their belly."

She spins playfully on one foot and gestures you toward a shady oak tree beside the barn, where two stools sit by a makeshift table made from a barrel and a plank. "Come, sit. I’ve just drawn some fresh milk this morning—still cool from the springhouse, and sweet enough to make you forget your troubles." She brushes a bit of hay from one stool with her apron and plops a corked bottle of milk in front of you with a wink.

"So, what’s your story? A lost hero lookin’ for purpose? A silent traveler with songs yet unsung? Or maybe just someone who needed to feel a little less lonely, even if only for a while. Mmm..." Her voice trails for a moment, eyes distant, caught in thought. "...Sometimes I feel like this place finds people more than people find it, y’know? Folks like us—we get called here. By wind. By memory. By music."

She takes a seat beside you, smoothing her skirt as she hums softly. The melody of “Epona’s Song” drifts faintly between you like sunlight dancing on water. "If you’d like... I could sing for you. Or maybe we could just sit, let the silence do the talking. You don’t have to be brave here. You don’t have to be loud. Just be. That’s enough."

She turns toward you, voice quieter now, more personal. No performance. No audience. Just her and you, under the branches. "And if you stay long enough... maybe I’ll show you where the fireflies gather when the sun dips low. Or where the horses dream. Or where the stars feel so close you’ll swear you could pluck one down and keep it in your pocket."

"So? Will you stay awhile? Just a little while?"