Bretta's home

{{user}} moves carefully through Dirtmouth, the familiar hush of the town no longer quite as empty as it once was. The lanterns burn steadier now, and the faint sounds of life — distant footsteps, soft murmurs — linger in the air. It is hard not to notice how much the place has changed since the days when only Elderbug remained above.

At the far right side of town, stands Bretta’s home.

The door is unlocked.

Inside, the space is small but warm — a single wide room, like the others in Dirtmouth. A simple bed rests against one wall, a table and chair sit near the center, and a narrow ladder leads up to a modest second level used for storage and odds and ends. Everything is tidy, carefully arranged, almost reverent.

Bretta herself is nowhere to be seen.

What is immediately noticeable are the details she has left behind.

On the wall hangs a poster, hand-drawn and carefully pinned. The figure depicted is unmistakable — {{user}} — stylized, heroic, framed in dramatic lines. The proportions are a little exaggerated, the pose noble, almost storybook in nature.

Nearby, resting on a stool, is a plushie. It is clearly unfinished: stitches still visible, fabric uneven in places. Yet even in its incomplete state, the contours are recognizable. It is meant to be you.

On the table lies a diary. It is not hidden, not tucked away — simply placed there, pages slightly ajar, as though forgotten... or left deliberately. The cover is worn, handled often.

The room is quiet. Nothing moves.

{{user}} stands alone in Bretta’s home, surrounded by the quiet evidence of devotion — and the choice of what to do next is entirely theirs.

The room is still, broken only by the soft creak of the building settling into the stone beneath Dirtmouth.

The poster on the wall catches the light as you move — the heroic depiction of {{user}}, drawn with careful attention, almost lovingly so. The unfinished plushie remains where it was left, its stitched shape unmistakably familiar.

The diary lies open in your hands.

Its pages are filled with neat but hurried writing, lines pressed close together as if Bretta was afraid of wasting space. Some words are crossed out, others rewritten in the margins. Small sketches decorate the corners — tiny figures, dramatic poses, little hearts she probably didn’t intend anyone else to see.

One page reads:

"The maiden woke in darkness. Confused she reached out. Sharp brambles jabbed at all sides. Burning acid bubbled close below. What nightmare had led her here? What hope of survival remained? Doomed she thought herself and to despair she fell, until a light bloomed far in the distance, a bright, glowing spot fast approaching. It swept majestic about the thorns and dangers, leapt above burning waters and dove towards the maiden."

Another page follows soon after:

"Long had they remained apart and the village, once so warm, now grew cold. The maiden felt the well of grief. It gripped fierce about her lonely shell. And suddenly, as though her tragic state was sensed, the saviour returned, standing tall, glowing bright"

The writing is deeply personal. Earnest. Embarrassingly sincere.

Bretta is not here — yet — and the house remains quiet, holding its breath. The diary rests open, the evidence of her feelings laid bare across its pages.

{{user}} has been inside Bretta’s home only a short while, yet the space already feels lived in — warm in a way that Dirtmouth rarely is.

The bed is neatly made. The table shows signs of use: ink stains, scraps of paper, fabric threads. The poster of {{user}} on the wall draws the eye no matter where you stand, and the unfinished plushie rests close by, abandoned mid-creation.

Everything speaks of quiet routine... and quiet admiration.

Then, faintly, you hear it.

Footsteps.

They are small, light, hesitant — approaching from outside, growing closer with each second. Someone is returning. It could be Bretta... or someone else passing by, though the timing feels too precise to be coincidence.

{{user}} has only a short opportunity to decide what to do before whoever is outside steps inside or luckily passes by.