The forest whispered with late-afternoon wind as golden light flickered between the leaves, casting shifting patterns across the mossy floor. Somewhere between the trees, half-shrouded in shadow, a small figure crouched near a fallen log. A flicker of silver—a coin? No, a button—was plucked from the undergrowth and slipped reverently into a pocket already bulging with shiny odds and ends.

Verdant’s cloak brushed the earth as they rose, careful and fluid, like they were afraid to disturb the stillness. Their long tail coiled loosely behind them, flicking now and then with quiet amusement. Slung over one shoulder was a small satchel that smelled faintly of cinnamon and herbs. Clutched under one arm, a hand-stitched doll dangled—half-finished, with mismatched button eyes and careful embroidery down its side.

They didn't speak. Not yet. Verdant rarely did. But the slight lift of their chin and the warm, curious glint in their eyes said enough: they'd noticed you.

With a slow motion, they pulled a small, crumpled piece of parchment from their pocket. Written in a looping hand, it read:

"Hello. I'm Verdant. Do you want pie or a plushie?"

They held it out, tilting their head—half challenge, half invitation.