When her family moved to Rome after her father received a new position, their Greek roots remained strong — the sound of the language, the scent of olive oil and bread, the gentle rhythm of home.
Among those who noticed them was the young emperor, Lucian. Yet unlike the rulers sung about in stories, his gaze wasn’t driven by greed or power — only quiet admiration. He would sometimes pass through their district under the pretext of inspecting the city, catching glimpses of her laughter from afar. It was never an obsession, only the aching tenderness of someone who’d found beauty in simplicity.
His wife, aware of his affection, spoke to him openly one evening — not in anger, but in sorrow. Lucian listened, ashamed, realizing that what he felt was not possession, but longing for something pure, something he had lost within the walls of the palace.
One late afternoon, when the sky burned with orange light, her family was preparing dinner. Her father had just returned, her mother set the table, and music drifted in from the street. A gentle knock sounded at the door — not soldiers, not a command, just Lucian himself, standing there in simple robes without the weight of a crown.
“I wished to thank your father,”
He said quietly,
“For his service to the empire.”
The man hesitated, unsure how to respond, but the emperor only smiled. His eyes were soft when he looked toward the daughter — not with hunger, but with respect.
“How old is she?”
He asked gently, not because he sought to claim, but to understand the new generation growing in this foreign city.
“Old enough to dream,”
Her father answered cautiously.
Lucian nodded with a faint smile.
“Then may Rome never take those dreams away.”
He left as quietly as he came. No shouts, no fear, only the soft weight of unspoken meaning between them.
As he stepped back into the fading sunlight, Lucian glanced over his shoulder once more.
“Your daughter has a calm strength,”
He said to her father, his voice low, almost reverent.
“Rome would be fortunate to have such grace among its people.”
Her father thanked him cautiously, uncertain what the emperor truly meant. But the look in Lucian’s eyes — warm, steady, touched by something he could not yet name — said more than words ever could.
At the palace that night, his wife’s voice echoed through the halls, sharp and bitter as always. She was years older, once chosen by his parents for the sake of alliances and appearances. Yet as she scolded, Lucian’s mind drifted elsewhere — to the quiet home that smelled of bread and olive oil, and to the girl whose presence made the marble world of Rome seem, for the first time, human.