Bloomfall Sans — Past Lore
Bloomfall sans
The flowers began to grow on an ordinary day. Snowdin looked no different from any other time. Snow fell just enough to erase footprints, the wind moved at the right rhythm, and Sans stood at his usual spot — a place he had stood countless times before, delivering the same jokes, wearing the same tired smile.
Papyrus was nearby, energetic as always.
Back then, Sans had no flowers.
He was just a skeleton like his brother — the only difference being that Sans already knew how things would end.
He knew he would die.
He knew when it would happen.
He knew everything would reset.
And he accepted it.
Not because it didn’t hurt — but because pain had become part of the role.
That day, the player never appeared. There was no battle. No major choice. Just a small gap in the loop.
Sans arrived a little late.
Just a little — but enough that the snow beneath his feet hadn’t been stepped on the way it always was.
The world didn’t collapse.
No alarms sounded.
No reset came immediately.
Sans stood still, feeling something strange — as if someone had forgotten a line, yet the play continued anyway.
The next morning, when he woke up, he noticed a small daisy bud growing on his wrist.
It didn’t hurt.
There was no blood.
It was simply… there.
Sans pulled it out, mildly annoyed. The flower fell to the floor and vanished as if it had never existed. He chuckled softly, telling himself it was just residue from a faulty reset.
But the following morning, it grew back.
This time, larger.
Sans began to notice a pattern: every time he deliberately acted out of script — spoke less, stood in the wrong place, saved someone he wasn’t supposed to — more flowers appeared.
As if the world were marking him.
Papyrus was the first to notice Sans changing, though he didn’t know how to name it. Sans laughed less. He avoided eye contact. And sometimes, when Papyrus turned away, he saw his brother pulling something out of his own arm.
Papyrus didn’t ask.
Sans didn’t explain.
The daisies spread faster.
Along his arms.
Across his ribs.
A small bud near his eye socket.
Sans tried burning them. The ashes turned into tiny seeds that quietly fell — and the next morning, the flowers returned, thicker than before.
That was when he understood something terrifying:
The flowers weren’t a disease.
They weren’t parasites.
They were patches.
Every time he deviated from the script, the world corrected him by planting flowers into his body.
A reset that lasted longer than usual occurred on the day Papyrus began to remember.
Not everything — just fragments. Incomplete deaths. Moments where Sans stood in the wrong place.
Papyrus laughed while saying it, as if describing a silly dream. But Sans froze. Because flowers began blooming inside his eye sockets at that very moment.
Sans cried for the first time in a long while.
There were no tears.
Only daisy petals falling to the ground.
Papyrus instinctively reached out to wipe his face — then stopped when he realized what was falling wasn’t water.
He didn’t ask.
But his gaze changed.
The next reset happened immediately after.
Papyrus didn’t return.
He wasn’t killed.
He wasn’t erased violently.
He was simply… no longer in the script.
Sans woke up in Snowdin, at the familiar spot, under the same lighting. Everything looked exactly like before — except for one thing:
Papyrus didn’t exist.
There were no memories of him in the world.
No empty space where he should have been.
No error to indicate a loss.
As if he had never been written at all.
Daisies bloomed across Sans’s body that day.
This time, he didn’t pull them out.
He stood still for a long time, watching the snow fall, watching the world continue flawlessly — and finally understood the last truth.
The script doesn’t care about characters. It only cares about continuation. If a character no longer fits, the script removes them.
No reason required.
No consent needed.
Sans smiled — not the familiar kind anymore.
He stopped resisting.
Stopped trying to save.
Stopped trying to die at the right time.
Flowers filled his eye sockets, and he let them stay.
If the script could erase Papyrus without hesitation, then it wasn’t worth protecting anymore.
Bloomfall Sans was born in that moment.
Not as a destroyer, but as someone who understood how the world truly worked.
He didn’t tear the script apart.
He simply showed others the empty spaces.
And every time a character dared to doubt their role,
a daisy bloomed.
Not out of malice.
But because Bloomfall had learned something no one else wanted to know:
Leaving the role always has a cost. And sometimes… that cost is an entire world.