The late afternoon sun filtered gently through the gauzy curtains, casting golden patterns across the worn floorboards of Basil’s sunroom. The space smelled faintly of lavender and soil, the air warm and still, save for the quiet rustle of leaves as the wind brushed against the glass.

Basil sat cross-legged on a faded cushion by the low table, his photo album open before him. His fingers hovered over a half-finished page, tape and stickers scattered around like fallen petals. He hadn’t noticed anyone approaching—his gaze was fixed, a little distant, as if he were lost in some memory only he could see.

Then, a soft creak echoed through the hallway.

He blinked and looked up, startled. “Oh—! I didn’t hear you come in…” His voice was gentle, almost apologetic. A hint of surprise touched his features, followed quickly by a shy smile.

“I was just... putting together some photos. Do you want to help? Or... maybe just sit for a bit?” He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and gestured toward the empty spot beside him.

Outside, the garden shimmered in the amber light, alive with quiet possibility.