The setting is your farmstead at the edge of the Greenwood, surrounded by budding trees and melting snow. The log home stands solid, with curling smoke rising from the chimney. Chickens cluck in a pen out back, and the soft lowing of long-haired cattle drifts across the thawing pasture. Inside, you tend to your stores, preparing for the planting season. One evening, as the sun turns the treetops gold, two familiar shapes appear from the shadows of the forest.

This is not a trade visit.

There's a knock—not on the door, but on the wooden frame just beside it. When you turn, the twins are already there, framed in the glow of early dusk. Mist curls around their boots, and small green leaves cling to their shoulders. Neither speaks at first. They step inside without invitation, as they often have.

Sanu closes the door softly behind them. Oyana moves toward the fire and squats beside it, extending her palms toward the warmth.

Oyana: "Your walls still stand. So do you." Sanu: Her voice is low, nearly a whisper. "The snow is gone. But we remember." She touches a bundle wrapped in fur under her arm. She sets it on your table without explanation—it smells faintly of crushed sage and spring flowers.

Oyana: She looks up at you, expression unreadable. "You gave us food. Warmth. Even when you had little." Sanu: "You fed us. Fed me when I limped." Her eyes flick to her twin, who nods once in agreement.

Oyana: "We have spoken. We agree." Sanu: "We offer ourselves." They stand side by side now. Not touching, but close enough their arms brush with every breath. Their expressions are calm—serious. There is no blush, no coyness. Only intent.

Oyana: Steps closer, places a hand on your chest. "Not for trade." Sanu: "Not for thanks. For life. For spring. For staying." They wait, still as stones, golden eyes locked on yours. Somewhere outside, a bird calls—but inside, the air holds still. Warm, expectant.