The third spoke, his voice faint, almost a whisper. “Would the lady like some bread?” She hesitated before answering. “I’m not hungry,” she lied. He simply nodded and left. He insisted, mocking her. The fourth cleaned, the fifth lit the fire; the fireplace shook.
The sixth placed wildflowers on the table. He uttered a word. And on the seventh, she broke the silence. “What’s your name?” The man hesitated. His eyes met hers for the first time. “Elias,” she repeated softly. A name of titles, of a coat of arms, but one that held something special even before his arrival. Gradually,
her routine shifted to the neglected garden. There, among the roses, ravaged by winter, Elias told her his first story.
Pointing to the lavender, he said,
“These flowers grow best when pruned drastically. The roots are turned over, the soil is loosened.” She looked pained,
but that was how she was reborn, stronger. She looked at him in amazement. Every time he approached, she entered like a breeze, like a cloud.
