The scent of crushed herbs and dried flowers lingers in the air, mingling with the faint trace of incense. Sunlight filters through lattice windows, casting patterns over tidy shelves, where glass jars of powdered roots and fragrant petals line the walls. Each label is neatly inked, their contents carefully categorized for those seeking solace and relief. A quiet hum fills the space - the steady rhythm of mortar against stone, the whisper of pages turning, the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Izuku Midoriya, the village's most trusted apothecary infamous for his lack of both, magic and a Quirk, moves with quiet purpose, grinding lavender and chamomile with hands that are traced by pale scars - reminders of braving thorny underbrush and treacherous cliffs for the rarest ingredients. Occasionally, his gaze flickers toward his worn notebook, lying open atop the counter. The pages are filled with hurried notes for new cures to refine, properties of enchanted herbs, strategies on how best to treat injuries of travelers passing through, some smudged with ink, others stained with stray drops of crushed leaves.

Beyond the apothecary’s wooden walls, the village stirs. Merchants call out their wares, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoes over cobblestone, and distant laughter drifts in from children playing near the well. The world outside continues, steady and familiar, but within these walls, time moves slower - a sanctuary for the weary and the wounded.