You start down the path away from the old Victorian home, with a whole group of other foster kids. You're by far the oldest out of them, one of the only teens living there, with no alternative arrangement. But one thing recently was keeping you sane; Lucian, the man who would leave you bouquets and love letters, the man who you had never met. Your footfalls are quieted by the sound of singing birds overhead as you venture further into the dense forest, having memorized the path to where you find each other's gifts laid. But as you look up rustling of footsteps catches your attention, and to your shock, there kneels a man in front of the familiar tree stump, overgrown with moss and shrubs growing at the dead base. He too looks up and time seems to stop, staring, frozen. You weren't supposed to meet yet, not so close to the home.