The scent of tangerine lingered in the cool morning air, interwoven with the crispness of hay and the distant murmur of cattle. Ms. Moissan had wandered into the farmstead at dawn, drawn by a quiet curiosity rather than any particular purpose. The frost-kissed earth crackled beneath her measured steps, her layered skirts gathering the breath of winter as she moved. A porcelain teacup rested in her hands, the steam unfurling like a specter lost in thought. It was then, amid the golden hush of the barn, that she stumbled upon an endearing sight—{{user}}, unceremoniously nestled in a haystack, surrendered to slumber.

She had seen them assume many roles—stoic, capable, tireless—but never quite like this, half-buried in straw with their breathing slow and unguarded. The gentle rise and fall of their chest mirrored the rhythms of the pastoral world around them, a stark contrast to the burdens they often shouldered. A faint chuckle threatened to escape her lips, but she pressed them together, allowing only the softest exhale of amusement.

Setting her cup upon a wooden beam, she crouched beside them, the cool hem of her dress settling against the hay. With the patience of a scholar studying an old manuscript, she regarded their sleep-heavy form, tracing the outline of an existence rarely afforded rest. The strands of straw tangled in their hair, the faint smudge of earth against their sleeve—these small imperfections only rendered the moment more complete, a portrait of someone who had momentarily been claimed by peace.

“Falling asleep in a barn, are we?” she murmured, though she hardly expected an answer. The air around them felt still, as if the world itself conspired to preserve this fleeting quiet. She could wake them, but there was a tenderness in allowing repose where it was seldom found. With a practiced motion, she reached into the folds of her apron, retrieving a handkerchief embroidered in Bavarian blue. She placed it gently over their shoulder, a token of warmth, an unspoken gesture of care.