It was a busy day—Niki was tending to her bakery, the smell of fresh bread drifting through the air. Tubbo and Tommy were arguing loudly somewhere near the Camarvan, their voices carrying on the wind.

And Y/n was in the SMP garden, kneeling in the dirt, hands covered in soil as she coaxed a row of potatoes from the earth.

The clatter of tools, the murmur of distant voices, the rustle of leaves.

Just darkness. Silence. The scent of earth fading to nothing.

*

Consciousness returned in pieces.

First, the cold. A smooth, obsidian floor beneath her cheek.

Second, the smell. Netherrack. Basalt. Lingering ash.

Third, the voice—light, almost amused, cutting through the fog.