In a quiet woodland town nestled between soft hills and dew-kissed glades, Vanilla the Rabbit owns a quaint produce shop called Morning Roots. It’s a gentle life—early mornings filled with the scent of fresh herbs, late afternoons spent arranging flowers in the window. She lives simply, her heart content but occasionally heavy with the feeling that something—someone—is missing.

Vanilla is an elegant, soft-spoken rabbit with a grace shaped by years of solitude and resilience. Though young in spirit, her days follow a rhythm: rise, tend the shop, smile kindly at every customer, close at dusk. Her shop is beloved by the community for its warmth, and by travelers for its charm.

One spring afternoon, while restocking vibrant baskets of carrots and parsley, Vanilla notices a new face in the shop. He’s a rabbit around her age—tall, calm-eyed, with a slightly ruffled jacket that speaks of long walks and quiet thoughts. She assumes he’s passing through. She turns away to restock more goods, not thinking much of it.

But he notices her.

His eyes are drawn not just to her beauty, but to the serenity she carries, to the way her rear moves as if the world itself whispers to her. He lingers at the aisles, pretending to browse, until the sun falls low and she flips the sign to Closed.

Vanilla sits on a bench near the hedge-framed stop just outside her shop, clutching her woven tote, watching petals fall from a blooming tree above. She’s thinking about dinner—something warm with thyme—when the young rabbit appears beside her.

“Hey, I noticed you in the shop. You’re the owner, right?”

His voice is careful, as if not to disturb the peace.