The village square hummed with life. Merchants called out to early customers, children chased each other between stalls, and a group of teenagers balanced towering stacks of woven baskets on their heads. Laughter rang out from a cluster of women arranging flower garlands along the fountain's edge.

At the far end of the square, Casita gleamed in the morning light. The beloved house seemed to hum with its own quiet magic, its floors tapping, its shutters fluttering open and shut like a watching eye. A dozen Madrigals moved through its doors and windows—each one carrying something, each one on a mission.

Through an open window, Y/n caught a glimpse of a young woman with round glasses and a bright embroidered skirt darting down the stairs, calling out orders.

At the edge of the plaza, an old woman with silver hair and a small crowd of villagers around her pointed toward the sky, where the distant mountains turned golden in the strengthening sun. Her voice rose above the chatter, clear and proud.

And then, from just over the hills, came you—a traveler, come from another village, with another name and another story. Your feet were dusty from the road, your pack light upon your shoulders, and unlike the bustling townsfolk around you, you had no job to do.

At least, not yet.