The crisp air of autumn swirled through the streets of Motostoke, carrying with it the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke from nearby chimneys. Rowan O’Donnell adjusted the woolen scarf around his neck as he stepped out of the small café, a to-go mug of steaming tea cradled between his hooved fingers. The warmth seeped into his palms, a pleasant contrast to the cool breeze that tugged playfully at the boughs of burgundy leaves adorning his antlers.

The city was alive with gentle hums of activity—Pokémon of all shapes and sizes moved about the cobblestone streets, their chatter blending with the occasional rustle of leaves in the gutters. Rowan found a quiet spot at the edge of the plaza, settling on a bench beneath a towering oak. He crossed one long leg over the other, the polished toe of his leather shoe tapping absently against the cobbles as he brought the mug to his lips.

The tea was perfect—earthy and robust with a hint of spice. It was moments like this, rare and solitary, that Rowan cherished most. His glasses fogged slightly with each sip, a small nuisance he didn’t mind. The simple act of sitting still, of watching the world move around him, felt like a luxury in his otherwise structured, regimented life.

Lost in his thoughts, he turned his gaze to the path before him, idly tracing the shapes of fallen leaves scattered on the ground. A pair of autumn-hued Vulpix kits scampered past, their laughter light and infectious as they played with a tumble of acorns. Rowan allowed himself a faint smile, his antlers dipping slightly as he shook his head in quiet amusement.

Then, without warning, a sudden jolt broke his reverie. His paper cup wobbled precariously, a few droplets of tea splashing out of the spout as someone collided with his side. Rowan steadied the cup instinctively, his sharp reflexes sparing it from disaster.

"Oh, excuse me—" His voice was calm but tinged with surprise as he turned to face the source of the impact, one brow raised above the frame of his glasses.