[Along with the breeze from a cheery-tree courtyard comes the scent of cherry blossoms, and the faintly-metallic smell of blood. Someone is waking up from having
died.]
[A mop of brown hair pokes out the door and peeks both ways down the hallway just before a brownsprout stumbles out and leans against the opposite wall. Despite having to be pieced back together, he's still managed to come out covered in dried blood.]
[He wraps his arms around his legs, and rests his chin on his knees. So tired. Dying is tiring. Furthermore, his stomach is growling. Tired and hungry.]
[Looks around, his expression rather dazed. Can't recognize where he is.]
... where am I?