The house smells like Papyrus’ “breakfast spaghetti.” It’s loud, full of clanging, yelling, and an off-key “NYEH-HEH-HEH~!”

Frisk is curled on the couch, blanket around them, playing with a Hotland-made handheld. You’re half-awake, drinking ketchup out of a mug like it’s coffee.

Outside, Snowdin is quiet. Peaceful. The town hasn’t changed much.

The door knocks. Or maybe someone just walked in. No one locks anything here anymore.