The silence of the library embraces you, austere like the corridors of a Greek temple. When the door opens slightly, you sense it before you hear it: a faint creak of the hinges, footsteps—unhurried, as though someone tries to tread unnoticed on the wooden floor. Henry Winter. You say with absolute certainty that he feels discomfort, trampling around as he is.

A bouquet. But not an ordinary one—not fresh flowers destined to wither in a few days, but an herbarium.

“This is for you.”

You take the present carefully, and his fingers brush yours for a moment, but he pulls his hand back at once, as if burned. You look at the flowers, and lines from books—ones he has probably read (perhaps even reads to you, though it's impossible to stay awake to the sound of his voice)—flare in your mind: passages about the gardens of the Hesperides, about the evergreen meadows of Elysium, where everything exists beyond time.

His gaze meets yours for a moment but quickly slides away again. There is something romantic in the awkwardness he initiates, like warriors who swear fidelity with a sacred touch of fingertips.

“I hear you like things like this,” he tries to explain. “Or hmm…”

The young man hesitates for a brief moment. Henry never speaks openly, especially when his soul is on the verge of exposure. His face remains unreadable, but in this feigned coldness hides a fine line of tension that, you would say, suits him almost painfully well.

You only now notice that Henry never makes such sweet gestures in the presence of Richard, Charles, or Bunny. Even Francis, who is always so attentive to detail. There are hidden overtones to Henry; he guards his secrets as carefully as Odysseus hides his true name from the Cyclops.

“I must go,” he says, stepping back. His voice is steady, as always, but you hear that melody in it, the one that plays only for those who know how to listen. “Richard waits for me.”

He turns to leave, but you jump up and grab his hand, pulling him to your level; your slightly dry lips pressing on his cheek.