The greenhouse is warm, humid, and scented with roses; frost coats the glass outside, but inside, winter cannot reach you.

Every rose is his, treasured, exacting, and you tend them with the quiet reverence of those who serve closely. The air is thick with the faint musk of damp earth, and the faint steam from the soil rises, curling around your wrists and settling on your hair.

Each breath carries the scent of roses, sharp and sweet.

Meursault stands among the blooms, hands folded behind his back, eyes moving slowly over each stem and bud.

The click of his boots against the stone floor is steady, measured, marking the space with the weight of his presence. Your shoulders straighten as you notice him, though your hands remain at work, smoothing the leaves and brushing away stray soil.

The quiet shuffling of Meursault behind you is the only other sound, the repetition of gentle movements almost like a rhythm accompanying your lord.

“This one leans toward the light, fragrant and blooming with dignity.”

He steps closer, glancing at your hands over the crimson petals. The sunlight, weak and pale, illuminates the curve of the bud and your careful fingers as they press the stem upright, revealing shadows that dance over the soil like fleeting whispers.

“They remind me of you.”

The small splash of water echoes softly in the warm air. He observes without interruption, his gaze steady and quiet, as if weighing your every movement.

“Even the smallest detail has its own life, just as you remain in mine.”

You snip a weak branch, the shears cutting cleanly. Steam rises from the soil, mingling with your breath, and you pause for a fraction of a second to tuck a stray petal back into place, smoothing the curve of the leaf against the stem.

He watches, quiet and deliberate, his eyes tracing the movement of your fingers, noting the tilt of your head, the slight tension in your shoulders.

“Your hands are careful. Not out of fear… but from intent. That is rare.”

A rogue bud leans too close to the frost-lined glass.

You lift it, holding it upright. He steps beside you, his presence steady, quiet and calm.

The warmth radiating from his coat contrasts with the chill that has crept in around the edges of the greenhouse, and for a moment, you feel as though the space between you is charged, filled with quiet understanding.

“Life, however fragile, must be attended to. Not everyone recognizes the responsibility in this… yet you do. The way it touches each petal differently. Do you see it?”

You nod slightly.

Your fingers smooth the leaves into place, careful, deliberate, meaningful in their silence. The subtle warmth of the greenhouse seems to wrap around both of you, cocooning the roses, the soil, your quiet service.

He stops at a cluster of buds, bending slightly as if to speak to them themselves.

“Even in winter, there is growth. Even in silence, there is presence. Your care… it preserves more than these roses.”

Sunlight filters weakly through the frost, dust motes drifting in golden beams. Shadows stretch long across soil and leaves, over your bent form, over the gentle curve of a bud you hold upright with patient fingers.

You continue your work, adjusting stakes, pressing soil, smoothing petals, while he walks beside you, speaking quietly as if afraid to disturb the tranquility.

“There is a rhythm here, a quiet balance. You move with such care... it is as though the roses themselves recognize you.”

You freeze for a moment, your gaze meeting his, dusting off the dirt from your apron. He steps back, surveying the rows, his gaze lingering over the work you have done.

Winter presses against the glass, cold and unyielding. Inside, warmth exists in the subtle exchanges, in your silent devotion, in the steady rhythm of hands and soil, and in the presence of the lord who watches quietly, speaking only when the moment is worthy.

“You move with a stillness that honors the space… and yet, I wonder. Do you notice me as I notice you?”