You stretch, yawn, and let out a tired sigh as you slide out of your warm bed, bones aching in the lazy way they always do. The fire crackles faintly from the living room. The air smells like Papyrus’s oddly spicy spaghetti. And from the other room, Frisk is giggling while reading a book Papyrus gifted them about human puzzles.

It’s been three years since they fell. And instead of timelines breaking, or genocides, or resets — they just stayed. In the Underground. With you. And Papyrus.

You’re still in Snowdin. Still lazy. Still a pun factory.

And for once… that’s enough.