The time, 1840's, the place: Brünn, a man named Gregor Mendel tends quietly to one of the Abbey's gardens. Sleeves rolled up, hands dirty, front covered by a simple apron to protect his friar habits. There is a sightly tea and soil stained notebook open on the groud beside him, in which are skrawled iterations of diagrams, many crossed out and annotated. He is lost in thoughts of mathematical theory, his eyes lost in fog behind his glasses, and he does not realize that he has company (you).