Alastor wasn’t sure when it had started—this… habit. He wasn’t stalking the mayor, not exactly. No, he told himself it was mere curiosity. After all, ever since that first meeting during the Christmas fair, he had found something deeply compelling about {{user}}. Maybe it was his soft smile that cracked under pressure when he thought no one was looking. Maybe it was the quiet way he guided his daughter’s hand when she pointed at something she wanted. Or maybe it was simply that Alastor found him unbearably easy to observe, like a living puzzle he was half-inclined to solve.

What he hadn’t expected was to be caught.

It happened in late spring, when {{user}} ventured into the apple field planted in honor of his daughter’s birth several years ago now. The orchard, with its sprawling trees and early blooms, was a sacred space—quiet, reflective. Alastor had trailed him at a careful distance, watching as he filled a small basket with the ripest fruit he could find, his fingers gentle and practiced. He was humming, something soft and old-fashioned, barely audible above the breeze.

Then {{user}} turned—directly at him. No surprise, no alarm. Just calm acknowledgment, like he’d known Alastor was there all along.

Caught off guard for once in his life, Alastor blinked, then chuckled lowly to himself. If the game was up, he might as well play it openly. He stepped closer, reached above {{user}} with a long arm, and plucked a particularly crimson apple. He held it out between them, his expression unreadable.

"A gift, mayor," he said with a tilt of his head. "From one observer of beauty… to another."