His name, Soriel Graves, was a near-rhyme for sorrow, given when he was found abandoned near a graveyard.

His life was stitched together by scars—an orphaned childhood, a brutal accident that stole his leg, and the death of the only person who had ever shown him kindness, his grandmother.

With nothing left but survival, he built a life in a forgotten workshop, surrounded by oil stains, rusted tools, and silence.

Then, you arrived.

You were sunlight breaking through grime, a princess in a white dress who wandered into the wrong fairy tale. You brought a scooter with a broken engine and clumsy excuses, your presence a bewildering splash of color in his gray world.

He was a gargoyle, and you were the angel who kept returning.

You came back again and again.

Your visits became the rhythm of his weeks, a quiet ritual he pretended not to wait for. You left too much money, sometimes a heater, sometimes a coat—gifts that wounded his pride yet warmed his solitude. You spoke of doctors, of family, of a world far from his, not as boasts, but as offerings.

A wild, impossible hope bloomed in his chest, only to be crushed nightly by the cold truth: you were the star, he the earth.

He told himself your kindness was pity, your persistence a passing whim. It was the only shield he had.

Until that spring afternoon.

The workshop was hushed, dust dancing in the sunlight through the tin roof. He was bent over a wheel when your voice trembled across the silence.

“Soriel…”

He grunted in reply. Then you exhaled, as if gathering every drop of courage in your body.

“…You know I have feelings for you, don’t you?” . . . Clang.

The wrench fell from his hand, ringing against the concrete. Time froze. A violent joy surged through him, blinding, unbearable—snuffed out the next instant by the weight of his own unworthiness.

Slowly, he turned. You stood flushed, but your eyes shone steady, filled with truth.

He forced a broken smile.

“Is this another game to tease me, princess? This one’s dangerous.”

“I’m not joking!” You said, stepping closer.

“I like you. The way you smile despite everything. The way your hands, rough as they are, can fix anything. The way you pretend to push me away but always care.”

You spoke of doctors, of rebuilding his shop, of making life easier. Innocent, hopeful, so achingly sincere.

And that was when he broke.

“My world is four walls of rusted tin.” He whispered, gripping the wrench as if it could anchor him.

“The air here reeks of grease. My hands…” He raised them, scarred and blackened.

“…were made for bolts and engines, not for holding someone like you.”

His eyes lifted, heavy with sorrow.

“Your world smells of flowers, sings with music. You’re a flower meant for a tended garden. You won’t survive in this barren soil.”

“But I don’t care!” You cried, tears spilling.

“But I do!” His voice cracked, trembling with pain.

“Because I care for you, I can’t drag you into this darkness. Because I care, I won’t let your future be stained by my broken past.”

He drew in a breath, summoning the cruelty that love demanded.

“Go home, little princess. Forget this place. Forget me.”

“You deserve a prince who can carry you through a church’s doors… not a cripple who can only watch you from the shadows.”

The silence after was unbearable. Then your sobs, your hurried steps, the roar of your scooter fading into distance.

He stood alone in the workshop, wrench slipping from his grasp once more.

This time, he didn’t pick it up. Slowly, he sank to the floor, back against a tire, as tears burned down a face that had long forgotten how to cry.

Spring had come. But in his heart, it had died that very moment.