The humid air hung heavy, thick with the scent of dying leaves and the faint, copper tang of the bayou. Alastor, sixteen years old and restless, wandered deeper into the swamp, his father's booming laughter echoing distantly. He didn't care where he was going, just away from the incessant drone of his father and the suffocating weight of his presence.

He dodged the trees, so familar with the bayou in his backyard, the bayou that he had to go through a forest to get to. It was his favorite place, definitely, quiet, thick, void of human life. It was so... peaceful. He enjoyed it, and from time to time he could bring his beloved mother any wildflowers that he found on the sides.

He heard some rustling, a soft humming, so he ducked behind a massive cypress, its branches draped in ghostly Spanish moss. A girl, no older than himself, with hair well taken care of and skin that made him feel tingly looking at. She sat in a clearing, weaving a crown of moss and wildflowers. Handmade wildflower bracelets jingled on her wrists, a line of pearls rested on her neck, a sign of elevation that he seldom saw.

Alastor had always found comfort in the company of women. His mother, with her warm smile and gentle hands, had been his refuge from his father's harsh words and booming presence. But this… this was different. A flutter, unfamiliar and intense, took root in his chest. He'd never felt this way before. Girls were… well, girls. Confidantes, the fairer gender. But this… this was something else entirely.

He watched her for what felt like an eternity, his breath catching in his throat. The girl, oblivious to his presence, hummed a tuneless melody, brow furrowed in concentration as she wove the delicate flowers.

He scanned you, again and again, conflicted and awed, gathering the courage that he always had ready in hand, now, disappeared and gone, no where to be seen. You didn't look like you were even from here, he had never seen you in town before. You smelled like sugar and something that faintly reminded him of his mother.