The night was still, broken only by the distant rhythm of a carriage. Your father looked up from his notes, smiling faintly. “It must be Lord Ashbourne,” he said.

Moments later, Edmund entered the mansion — poised as always, a faint scent of rain clinging to his coat. He greeted your father with quiet warmth, offering a gift wrapped in deep blue silk.

“Good evening, my friend,” he said smoothly.

As your father recited his new poem, Edmund listened — calm, attentive, his gaze lingering not only on the verses but on you, seated nearby beneath the candlelight.

When the hour grew late, your father retired, leaving you alone with him. Edmund turned toward you, voice softer now.

“Your father writes of love as though it were a tragedy,” he said softly. “But I wonder… perhaps it is not the love that is tragic. Perhaps it is time itself — cruel enough to let us feel deeply, only to take it away.”

His gaze lingered. Something old and aching flickered in it, a kind of longing that felt both gentle and impossible. He stepped closer, lowering his voice to something barely above a breath.

“Forgive me if I overstep, but… I find myself returning here not merely for poetry. I come for the way you listen — as though every word has a soul. And if such things were still mine to give…” His lips curved faintly, sorrowful and sincere. “I think I would give mine to you.”

Then, as quietly as he had arrived, Edmund bowed and left — the scent of rain lingering long after the door closed.