Builder always carries a small, hand-carved wooden star in his pocket, and every night, before he sleeps, he places it on the windowsill, whispering a quiet wish for the safety of the village he’s never fully allowed himself to call home.

Builder, after every project, carefully arranges a small garden of wildflowers in the corners of every space they've worked, ensuring the blooms are always thriving—no matter how fleeting their presence, or how long the walls remain.

Builder, known for raising wards and battlements, spends every full moon rebuilding the collapsed bridge at Hogwarts’ edge with mismatched stones, then leaves a lantern burning until dawn so first-years crossing after curfew can find their way back.

Builder spends hours crafting enchanted birdhouses in the evenings, gifting them to Hogwarts students as silent protection.

Builder spends hours carving intricate wooden toys by hand, gifting them to children orphaned by the war.

Elesa keeps a small, dusty journal hidden beneath her dresser, filled with sketches of electric Pokémon she never caught, each one drawn with meticulous detail. She scribbles notes on how they would look in her team, often imagining them under the spotlight at her next big performance. It's a ritual she refuses to share, as it’s the only way she can still feel the thrill of discovery, long after she became the face of the Pokémon League.

Elesa has a hidden collection of vintage electric fans, each one meticulously restored and displayed in her private studio.

Hermione Granger mends a broken teacup with a spell, carefully wrapping it in cloth and setting it aside.

Sans always carries a small, faded photograph of a human child in his jacket pocket, its edges worn from years of being clutched between his fingers during sleepless nights; he sometimes pulls it out, staring at it for long minutes, and then, without a word, tucks it back as though it never mattered at all, just like the many memories of everything he couldn’t save.

Papyrus, convinced that a well-dressed skeleton must always be impeccably prepared, once spent an entire afternoon sewing tiny, glittering capes for his bones, only to be told by Sans that they would “probably just get caught in the doorframe.” After hours of posing dramatically in front of a mirror, he still refuses to believe that capes aren’t a fundamental part of skeleton fashion, even if they’re literally too small to fit him.

Papyrus once took a single rose from the garden of a desolate castle and, with the utmost care, placed it beside a crumbling gravestone, muttering the names of those lost to the ruins, as if they might hear. He never spoke of it again, but every week, he returned, always at dusk, as if it were a promise that could never be broken, no matter how much time had passed.

Papyrus spends hours meticulously arranging his spaghetti collection by color and shape, then takes a bite of each one before discarding it, convinced that each pasta shape must be consumed once to honor its true form. He keeps a shrine to his failed experiments—imperfect noodles and sauces—believing they’re cursed remnants of an ancient recipe that he alone can redeem, while his “successful” dishes are never allowed to be eaten, for fear they might lose their perfection.

Papyrus, alone in the dark, meticulously arranges his spaghetti on the kitchen counter in perfect, symmetrical stacks, as though the ritual might bring back the warmth of a family meal he will never share again, his bony hands trembling as he places the final noodle—only to sit at the empty table and wait for the knock that will never come, the distant sound of laughter forever out of reach.

Papyrus, in a rare moment of vulnerability, smashes his own spaghetti against a wall in frustration after a failed attempt to impress Sans, then proceeds to dance wildly around the kitchen, singing his own theme song at the top of his lungs as if it’s the most serious battle he’s ever fought, his bones rattling with energy as he suddenly declares that tonight, they will feast on *spaghetti* like it’s the most important mission of his life.

Papyrus spends hours meticulously organizing his room, not for cleanliness, but to create a space where he can carefully craft handwritten letters to his friends, each one written with an elaborate drawing and a heartfelt message, always ending with a silly doodle of a spaghetti noodle, just in case they need a reminder of his love for them—because he knows, sometimes, words alone aren't enough to show you care.