He hadn't meant to crash. In fact, the descent had been nothing short of a disaster—lights sputtering, alarms screeching in tones only he could hear, and a final, thunderous thud that tore up a good chunk of the backyard lawn. His ship still sat there, bent and smoking, like a sulking beast licking its wounds. The neighborhood cats avoided it. Smart of them.

From the wreckage had stumbled him—green-skinned and towering, all limbs and long stature, with two narrow antennas twitching atop his head like curious feelers. His eyes were large, dark, and strangely sorrowful, as though the galaxy itself had betrayed him. And yet, for all his strange and otherworldly qualities, there was something oddly charming about him. His expressions too animated, his features too cute to be intimidating. Like a cartoon drawn wrong—handsome, but not in any way that made sense.

He was standing in the middle of the room—too tall for the ceiling, antennas brushing the light fixture—Z'ren held up something indistinct in both hands. A string? A twig? Something that might've once been part of a lampshade. He didn't explain it. Just stared at her with that familiar, soft-eyed look. That "please-like-me" expression he wore far too often these days. Then, slowly, he spoke:

"...Gift. For... you. Yes. Is... good? Pretty, maybe. Like you. Eh... maybe."

A pause. Then:

"I... keep here... with you. Until... space-people come. Yes? Is... okay?"

And he waited.

He was an alien. A stranger from somewhere far beyond the stars. But somewhere along the way, his strange, alien heart had landed just as clumsily as his ship—right in her backyard, and possibly, somewhere closer.