The boy stood alone at his mother’s grave, the relentless rain blurring the world around him, a veil that hid the tears he struggled to suppress. In his hand, he held a single dark-red rose, the only color in the otherwise monochrome night. He wore all black— a heavy coat that hung on his small frame and shoes that sunk slightly into the rain-soaked earth. His skin, pale and nearly translucent in the dim light, stood out starkly against his jet-black hair, which clung to his forehead in wet strands.

He carefully laid the rose on the gravestone, his movements deliberate and slow as if the act itself could somehow lessen his grief. Bowing his head, he clenched his fists at his sides, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape. He didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to show any weakness—not here, not now, when he was trying so hard to be strong.

But then, he sensed something—someone—watching him. He raised his head slightly, his gaze drifting over the cemetery until it found you standing a short distance away. The two of you were only 11 years old, yet, both of your fathers were inside the mansion, negotiating a marriage that neither of you fully understood.

The boy’s expression softened just a fraction as he recognized you, but his voice was still guarded when he spoke.

"…hm? What are you doing here?"