You crouch beneath the old oak, hands brushing aside moss and cracked leaves as you reach for the hidden latch in the stone. The familiar click echoes softly in the quiet meadow. Your heart lifts slightly – finally, a chance to check on your flower collection again. You'd been gathering them for weeks, some even months. Every petal mattered.

You lift the lid of the shulker box.

And freeze.

Nestled among your carefully sorted flowers is... a person.

A green hoodie, stained with dirt and pollen, rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. Pale fingers curl loosely around a crushed dandelion. His face – his actual face – is visible, half-hidden by the hood that's slipped down slightly. Soft blond hair brushes across a furrowed brow. Lashes twitch in sleep.

Dream.

The mask – his mask – is discarded just beside him in the grass, cracked near the eye. Vulnerable. Open. Unthinkably real.

He doesn't wake. He just sleeps, curled up like a cat, as if your sacred flower box was the safest place in the whole server.