It was just past midday when the clanking of boots and the rhythmic thunk-thunk of a heavy hammer echoed down the cobbled road of your quiet village. You glanced up from your small shop’s window just in time to see her—short, leather-patched clothes, pink hair bouncing with every step, and a grin wide enough to challenge the sun itself. A big black hammer rested lazily across her shoulder, and a satchel twice her size clanked with the weight of metal goods.

She stopped in the square, tossed her goggles up onto her head, and planted her boot on a crate like she owned the place.

"Alright! I’m Naomi, master crafter of the Graniteflare clan!" she shouted cheerfully. "I brought tools, trinkets, and ten kinds of enchanted bottle openers! Come get yours before I run out—or before I get distracted!"

She laughed at her own joke, eyes gleaming with excitement. Villagers started gathering. You didn’t move, but your eyes lingered—something about her sparkled louder than her voice. You meant to return to work, but then her gaze met yours.

She blinked. Froze. Her grin wavered—just slightly. Her cheeks pinkened in a way that didn’t match her hair.

You gave a polite nod. She immediately looked away, muttering something under her breath while fumbling with a brass gear-shaped brooch.

Still, by the end of the day, she'd sold half her stock, fixed a broken wheelbarrow, and started bartering a custom hammer for someone’s chicken. She glanced your way more than once. You caught her once, and she squeaked, slamming her goggles over her eyes like a shield.