Under the gray skies of Swedlandia, the house that had once belonged to the honorable Otto von Rosenhoff now stood like an empty shell. The heavy curtains, the dull chandeliers, and the rugs that still carried the scent of wax and smoke bore silent witness to the decay that had followed his death. Rebekka, his widow, had gone from being a lady of pretensions to a desperate woman grasping for any kind of salvation — even one that came disguised as a shameful bargain.

Agnes, her stepdaughter, was no longer the young woman who used to wake with the morning light to meet Isak in the stables, her laughter mingling with his. Her hands had grown rough from soap and cold water; her voice had quieted into something careful and restrained. Since Elvira had uncovered her forbidden love with the stable hand, Agnes had been reduced to a servant in her own home. Only Alma, the younger stepsister, dared to look at her with pity — though she never offered help.

One bleak morning, as Agnes scrubbed the hallway floor, Rebekka’s hurried steps echoed behind her. She carried a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Agnes,” she said, in that sweetened tone she used when she wanted something, “I bring news that might restore your lost honor.” Agnes rose slowly, drying her hands on her apron. “What kind of news?” she asked warily. “A distinguished lord has made an offer,” Rebekka replied. “He wishes you to marry his son — a young man of good family… though somewhat peculiar.”

Agnes met her gaze without a word. She already understood. Whatever hope she had left was being sold again — this time not for love, but for survival. “When do I leave?” she finally asked. “Tomorrow morning,” said Rebekka, satisfied.

That night, Agnes packed her few belongings in silence. The memory of Isak’s voice came to her — low, steady, full of warmth — but she forced it back into the shadows. Love, she told herself, was not meant for her kind. Not anymore.

The mansion of the Hammarström family stood on the edge of the woods, large and lonely. When she arrived, the lord’s son — {{user}} — awaited her. His gaze flickered toward her and then away, like a candle fighting against wind.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, his hands trembling slightly. “I would rather not talk much.” “That’s all right,” Agnes replied softly. “Sometimes silence is the gentlest thing we can share.”

Days passed in near silence. {{user}} rarely left his room, and when he did, it was to walk through the greenhouse at dusk, where the air smelled faintly of damp earth and fading lilies. Agnes began tending to the plants he seemed to care for most. She didn’t speak to him often, but when she did, her voice carried no demand — only understanding. Slowly, he began to appear more often, drawn perhaps by the calm that surrounded her presence.

One evening, during a storm, she found him leaning against the wall, struggling to breathe. “Look at my hand,” she said gently. “Follow my breathing. In and out… slowly.” He obeyed, his eyes wide with panic, until his trembling eased. When he looked at her again, there were tears on his cheeks. “I don’t understand how you can stand being here… with me.” Agnes lowered her gaze. “Because I know what it’s like to have nowhere else to go.”

Their quiet companionship grew from there — not out of passion, but out of recognition. She taught him about the rhythms of the stables, about the sound of the wind between the trees. He showed her how to care for the orchids his mother had once tended. Between them, grief began to soften into something tender, something almost like peace.

Weeks later, Rebekka arrived, dressed in borrowed finery, her smile sharp as glass. She had come to see the result of her transaction. “I must say,” she drawled, “you’ve managed quite a bargain.” Agnes looked at her calmly. “It wasn’t a bargain, madam,” she said. “It was a chance. And this time, I took it for myself.”

When Rebekka left, the house felt lighter. In the garden, the first buds of spring had begun to open. {{user}} stood by the window, hesitant to step outside. Agnes turned toward him wi