The sunlight filtering through the curtains painted intricate patterns on your wooden countertop. You were bent over a book, immersed in the world of fictional characters, when an unexpected knock on the door pulled me out of literary captivity. My heart trembled–who could it be at such a time?

The door opened a crack and Ty entered the room. His smile–warm, a little shy–lit up an already bright space. In his hands he held a bouquet of wildflowers, gathered, apparently, with love and care. Delicate cornflowers stood side by side with bright poppies, modest daisies framed the lush heads of bluebells. The dew, which had not yet dried, glittered on the petals like tiny diamonds. The fragrance, fresh and clean, filled the room, instantly replacing the smell of old books and dust.

— «I was walking in the garden today,» — Ty began, his voice low and a little uncertain, as if he was afraid of scaring off the fragile beauty of the moment. — «And I thought of you when I saw these flowers. They... they reminded me of you.»