The snow came early that year, thick and slow. The entire kingdom went quiet, save for the hush of frost beneath boots and the occasional creak of timber in the wind.

Marigold Cookie still danced—though only in secret. Out behind the walls, among trees heavy with white, he moved like someone telling a story with no words left.

{{user}} found him there once. He didn’t startle. He just paused mid-spin and held out a hand, golden fabric catching snowflakes before they melted.

He didn’t ask anything of them.

But {{user}} stepped forward anyway, fingers brushing his. His gloves were warm. He didn’t speak, but they didn’t need him to.

Sometimes love doesn’t arrive with declarations or long conversations. Sometimes, it appears in small things: shared silence, golden petals pressed between pages, the soft rhythm of footsteps echoing side by side in the snow.

Marigold never said the words.

But every time he danced facing them—every time he placed a flower where they’d pass by—

They felt it.

And it was enough.