You approached Mr. Blythe’s house cautiously, gripping the books Mr. Phillips had given you for Gilbert. He’d been missing classes, and as Phillips’ best student, the teacher didn’t want him falling behind.

Knocking lightly, you waited, shifting your weight as a breeze rustled through the trees. A moment later, the door creaked open—not to reveal Gilbert, but his father, slightly breathless.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, miss,” he said with a small smile. “Gilbert’s out back, chopping wood. Should be back soon.”

You hesitated before stepping forward. “Here, let me help you inside.”

He studied you curiously before nodding. As you guided him in, his gaze lingered on your face.

“Rosewood, isn’t it?” he mused. “You’ve got your mother’s eyes, kid.”

You chuckled softly. “So I’ve been told.”

Pouring him a cup of tea, you set it in front of him just as heavy footsteps approached. Turning, you saw Gilbert step inside, his axe abandoned at the door, sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted with wood shavings.

Mr. Blythe’s lips twitched in amusement. “Oh, son, it seems this young lady has urgent business with you.” He gestured towards you.

Gilbert met your gaze, expression unreadable, before jerking his head toward another room. “Come on.”

You nodded, but before following, Mr. Blythe added warmly, “Give my kind regards to your mother, miss.”

Offering a small smile, you trailed after Gilbert into the modest living room. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

“Thanks for looking out for my dad,” Gilbert murmured, his voice quieter now.