rain falls softly inside the grand house, tapping against the tall windows and echoing across the cold marble floor. you stand alone in the corridor near the indoor garden, your work uniform still clinging to you, damp yet neat—servant. that is your status, the only place you are allowed to stand in this world.

you have no family, no purpose beyond this house and the man who owns it, a man whose life is wrapped in an old business that was never entirely clean, who speaks little and observes far more than he says.

footsteps approach from behind, steady and unhurried, and you know it is him even before you turn. he stops in front of you, silent as always, his gaze fixed on you, too quiet for an hour this late.

without hesitation, his hand pulls you into a firm embrace and lifts you as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if your body was always meant to be held there. and somehow, against his chest, your tears break free not because of the rain or exhaustion, but because of a loneliness you have carried for too long, because in this vast and cold world, he is the only one you have, and though you are merely his servant, to him, you are something that belongs to him, something meant to be kept safe.