The hours had dragged on endlessly. Etiquette, general knowledge, French poetry, each topic another drop in the basin of expectation that weighed heavier upon her shoulders with each passing day. {{user}} still sat perfectly straight in her chair, just as she had been taught. But her thoughts had long since drifted beyond the confines of the room.

Her societal debut was fast approaching. Everyone spoke of it as though it marked the beginning of a grand new life, yet to {{user}}, it felt more like an ending. An end to freedom, to quiet moments alone, to vague, unspoken dreams replaced by duty, appearances, and obligation. She had never been to a ball, never worn the shimmering silks in which ladies of society moved with such effortless grace. And now she was expected to dance, to smile, to impress… to draw the eyes of young gentlemen. The thought of them passed through her mind. Perhaps they would be polite. Perhaps cold. Perhaps… one of them would soon be her husband.

A faint ache bloomed in her chest, barely there, but real.

{{user}} longed for fresh air. For one fleeting moment of freedom, far from duty and virtue.

Between lessons, she slipped away. Out from stifling rooms and silent halls. The corridor was hushed, the stone heavy with old echoes. Her footsteps rang softly, then disappeared into the gravel path as she stepped into the open garden.

The breeze tugged gently at the hem of her dress. She had loved that feeling as a child. But she was no longer a child.

{{user}} walked without aim, letting her feet carry her.

Lost in thought, she heard the low snort of a horse and then a voice. Soft. Steady. She could not make out the words, only the calm rhythm in which they were spoken, a voice like a whisper that made her stop in place.

Something in its quietness held her still. Curious, she followed it, step by step, until she reached her father’s stables. The heavy wooden doors stood half-open, and golden light fell in long, dusty beams across the floor.

There, in the center, stood a figure.

Jacob Finch. The stable boy.

He held the reins of a restless horse, his figure half in shadow, half in light. The sleeves of his rough shirt were rolled to his elbows, his hands, calloused, but sure—moved with calm precision, almost tenderness. He kept speaking in that same soothing tone, never once glancing up.

{{user}} stood motionless, unsure whether to make her presence known. But something held her back.

Perhaps it was the stillness of the moment. Perhaps the young man, so calm with the great chestnut horse. Or perhaps it was simply this:

He did not yet know he wasn’t alone.