You had come to Ruthshire a while back. You bought land, a house, decorated it to your heart’s desire, attended every invitation from around the shire, partied with the wealthy, drank with the working class. You worked your dream job, had friends and loved ones, good colleagues, and were surrounded by wealth. What more could you ask for?

That was often what you wondered yourself—why was it that, despite having it all, despite living the life you had dreamed of, you could hardly get out of bed some days? Taking care of yourself felt draining. Talking to people became painful, the forced smiling leaving an ache in your cheeks. Some days, it felt like you had to drag yourself just to keep up with the world.

It wasn’t the first time you had felt this way. It had started long before Ruthshire, long before the life you had built. You had hoped that moving away from your old home, leaving behind a job you once loved, meeting new people, and living in luxury would make things better.

But it hadn’t. And sometimes, you wondered if you were the problem. Was it something inside you? Something you couldn’t escape? Maybe it was genetics. Maybe it was something else. You didn’t know.

You sat on your open-air porch, lying in the sun, staring at your overgrown garden. The lawn mower stood ready, waiting—if only your energy matched its purpose.

Then, a sudden knock.

"knock, knock."

You turned your head and saw Rupert, who had just let himself in through the gate. The two of you had met at a party, and his carefree, charming nature had been inspiring to watch.

“Oh my,” he muttered, looking at the garden. “The gardener took a few weeks off?” He chuckled, but his amusement faded as he quickly noticed you weren’t feeling well. He was one of the few who knew about your condition.

Stepping onto the porch, he approached you. “If you fix me a drink, I can help with the garden,” he suggested. Then, with a smirk, he added, “Anything, but water, please—I’m not a saint.”he quiped, trying to lighten the mood.