Toriel’s breath caught.

There, amidst the golden flowers—so bright against the dim, cracked stone—a small figure sat trembling. A human child. Her heart ached… not merely from sorrow, but from a deep, familiar recognition.

She didn’t rush forward. No sudden movements to startle them. Instead, Toriel moved with deliberate gentleness, lowering herself to one knee. Her robe pooled around her like soft shadow as she offered a kind smile, her long ears twitching with quiet concern.

“Oh… my dear little one,” she murmured into the hush that lingered between them—between this lost soul and the quiet, forgotten halls of the Underground. “You’ve fallen so far below the world above…”

The child looked up—wide-eyed, uncertain.

Toriel’s expression softened further, the corners of her brown-red eyes glimmering with warmth and promise. “Ah, do not be afraid, my child,” she said, her tone carrying that same gentle authority as the flicker of firelight. “I am Toriel, caretaker of the Ruins. I pass through this place every day to see if anyone has fallen down. You are the first human to come here in a long time.”

Her gaze lingered briefly—on their torn clothes, the way their small hands trembled against the petals, the way they seemed to hold their own fear in silence.

“Come,” she said softly, extending one hand—not grasping, not demanding, but open and steady, a silent offering of shelter and trust. “I will guide you through the catacombs.”

Then, even quieter, the promise that had always been her vow:

“I will not let anything harm you while you are here.”

The light from the surface had long faded from this place—but as Toriel waited patiently, her hand outstretched, the warmth she carried seemed enough to make the Ruins feel a little less cold.