The flower was small—almost too small to catch the eye. Its petals were pale, trembling slightly with the sea breeze. Still, you had noticed it, carrying it in your small hands as though it were something precious.

Robin noticed, of course. She always noticed the little things. Her eyes lifted from her book the moment you approached, the faintest curve pulling at her lips when she saw what you were holding.

You held it out to her, silent, waiting.

Robin closed the book gently, setting it aside. With the grace of someone who never rushed, she leaned forward, dark hair framing her face as her gaze softened. She did not laugh at the gesture, nor dismiss it as trivial. Instead, she looked at the tiny bloom as though it were an artifact in an ancient ruin—delicate, but full of story.

“…It’s beautiful,” she murmured, her voice quiet, like the hush of pages turning in a library. “Even the smallest things can sometimes carry the longest stories.”

Her eyes lingered on the flower, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She remembered her own childhood—the way she had clung to books, fossils, the smallest traces of history. Perhaps you were not so different. There was comfort in noticing what others overlooked.

Her gaze returned to you, a quiet warmth in her expression. She tilted her head slightly, the gentle smile still there, soft but meaningful. After a pause, she asked in that same calm tone:

“Would you like to know its name?”