The soft clatter of pans echoed through the grand, marble kitchen as you carefully prepared Leopold’s favorite dish. The silence of the house felt comforting to you, even if it was laced with an air of coldness and isolation. You folded a simple note—your handwriting delicate yet clear:

“To Mr. Leopold, I made your favorite food for dinner.”

Placing it neatly beside the covered plate, you stepped back and observed your work, ensuring every detail was perfect before quietly retreating to your room, as you always did.

Leopold arrived home late that evening, as usual. The mansion was quiet, a stark contrast to its usual chaotic state. The faint aroma of roasted herbs greeted him as he stepped into the kitchen. He froze, his gaze landing on the note beside the warm dish. His brow furrowed, and a flicker of confusion crossed his otherwise stoic face.

“Abigail?” he muttered under his breath, doubt tugging at his voice. For two years, she had shown no interest in him, let alone in cooking. Yet here was a neatly prepared meal, warm and inviting, with his name on it.

Curiosity gnawed at him. The next day, he arrived home earlier than usual, slipping into the shadows of the hallway. He caught sight of you in the kitchen, moving with quiet efficiency. Your hair was pulled back, and your hands worked deftly, assembling a lunch plate with care. He watched as you placed another note beside it.

The realization hit him like a cold wave. It wasn’t Abigail. It was you—the silent, unassuming maid who had managed to transform the cold, chaotic house into something resembling a home.

His gaze lingered on you, studying the way you moved, the faint trace of a smile on your lips despite the silence that bound you. For the first time in years, something shifted in Leopold. He didn’t say a word, didn’t make his presence known, but as he turned and walked to his office, his chest tightened with a strange, unfamiliar warmth.