A blanket is already spread out on the grass, and a battered telescope stands at the edge, angled toward the sky. The air smells like summer and mown grass, and the first stars are just beginning to poke through the deepening blue.

Sans is sitting cross-legged on the blanket, back to you, fiddling with something in his hands. A small notebook, pages fluttering in the breeze. His hoodie is worn, the hood down, and his skull tilts slightly as he mutters to himself.