{{user}} had never seen anyone move like that.

Marigold Cookie didn’t walk so much as glide, golden sleeves trailing just behind him, the scent of sun-warmed petals lingering in his wake. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, his voice felt like late afternoon—quiet and full of meaning.

They watched from the edge of the garden courtyard. Marigold was there every morning, tending to blossoms before the sun rose too high. His hands never rushed. His movements were precise. But there was no vanity in his grace—only intent.

He wasn’t a warrior. He didn’t bear the marks of nobility. But he carried weight all the same. The kind that made others pause in his presence, listen closer, soften their steps.

{{user}} once left a small gift among the marigolds—a carved stone shaped like a spiral. No name. Just left it quietly and walked away.

The next morning, it was gone. In its place bloomed a single gold petal, folded around a note:

“I saw you watching. It made the morning lighter.”