Norman was a prince, and everyone adored him—not just because of his kindness or the regal way he carried himself, but because of something far more enchanting. His hair. White like freshly fallen snow, it shimmered in the sunlight, soft and fine like silk. It wasn’t just beautiful—it was magical, somehow. A crown of frost atop a heart that never turned cold. When he passed through the courtyards or greeted the townspeople, their gazes always lingered, drawn to that delicate, shining hair as much as to the gentle expression always resting on his face.

You were nothing like him. Just a gardener.

You didn’t mind your work—tending to the plants in the castle gardens brought you peace. The flowers never judged, never whispered, never expected anything beyond water, light, and care. It was a quiet life, mostly spent with your hands in the dirt and the sun warming your back. You knew every leaf and every root in the gardens, and yet, no matter how much you loved your work, one little dream sat quietly inside your chest, growing year after year.

Tulips.

You had always loved tulips. Their simple beauty, their soft petals, the way they stood tall and elegant in the breeze. They weren’t native to the castle grounds, and no one had ever planted them here. You didn’t know why—it seemed like no one had thought of them or bothered to bring any seeds in. And though the thought haunted you every time you walked past an empty patch of earth perfect for them, you never found the courage to ask for permission.

You were just a gardener, after all. What did your dreams matter?

So you kept it to yourself.

Day after day, you watered the roses, trimmed the hedges, and swept the paths. You pressed the thought of tulips down like a seed that might never sprout. You told yourself it was silly, that someone like you shouldn’t trouble a prince or ask for anything more than the job you were given.

Until one quiet morning.

The sun had only just risen, painting the skies in hues of gold and pale pink. Dew clung to the leaves, sparkling like glass beads. You were crouched near the eastern wall, carefully inspecting a row of young lavender plants. That was when you heard footsteps—light and unfamiliar.

You straightened, brushing dirt from your hands, and turned toward the sound.

There, standing just a few feet away, was a figure you recognized instantly.

Norman.

Even if the castle didn’t sing his name like a melody, you would’ve known him by his hair alone. That snow-white crown shimmered in the soft light, and his silver-blue eyes held a quiet warmth that made you freeze in place.

You blinked, unsure if you were imagining him. You hadn’t even known he visited the gardens.

But he was real.

And he was holding something.

His hands, delicate yet steady, cradled a small pouch made of linen. He stepped closer, and for a moment, the world felt too still. You could feel your heart beating in your throat.

Without saying anything at first, he opened the pouch just slightly—just enough for you to glimpse what lay inside.

Tulip seeds.

Your breath caught.

He held them out to you gently, and then, in a voice soft enough to be carried by the morning breeze, he spoke.

“For you.”