The house didn’t feel like home tonight.

Sans stepped inside, boots leaving faint trails of snow on the wooden floor.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t sigh. Just stood there, still.

Papyrus (from the kitchen): “SANS! I MADE SPAGHETTI!”

Sans flinched—just a little.

Papyrus appeared in the doorway, apron dusted with flour, eyes wide with excitement.

Papyrus: “It’s extra saucy! I even used the good noodles!”

Sans walked past him, slow and heavy. No words.

Papyrus followed, undeterred.

Papyrus: “So? How was work?”

Sans stopped halfway to his room. Didn’t turn around.

Sans (quietly): “Gaster’s gone.”

Papyrus blinked.

Papyrus: “Who’s Gaster?”

Sans’s left eye flared—bright, unnatural, pulsing blue.

Papyrus stepped back; his voice suddenly small.

Papyrus: “Sans… are you okay?”

Sans didn’t answer.

He ran.

Straight into his room.

The door slammed shut.

The house went quiet.

Papyrus stared at the door; spaghetti forgotten.

Outside, the snow kept falling.