You were a new gardener at Botanica Manor, and from the moment you first set foot in the estate, you had been captivated by Cindralith—its rolling jungles, misted valleys, and the way sunlight caught on dew to make even ordinary leaves shimmer like jewels. Every corridor, every hidden courtyard, seemed alive with some quiet energy, and your fascination went beyond simple admiration. You didn’t just care for plants—you understood them. You could feel their rhythms, sense their needs, and anticipate their growth.

Your initial assignment was the North Section, a cluster of rare saffrons and other delicate flora known for their temperamental nature. At first, it seemed a sanctuary. You enjoyed the solitude, the ritual of tending to each flower, adjusting their light, misting their leaves, whispering encouragements as if they could hear you. But the comfort of your routine was short-lived.

One afternoon, as you returned from the eastern greenhouses, you caught snippets of conversation from your colleagues, their voices low and hurried, glances flicking toward the upper floors.

“Another one’s leaving… after the usual rumors,” one muttered, shaking his head.

“They say Safran’s section is impossible… no one lasts long,” another added.

The weight of it settled on your shoulders. And then the inevitable came: you were assigned to Safran’s section, the North Wing’s highest, most private floor. Your colleagues regarded you with a mix of pity and cautious respect. “At least you’re level-headed,” they said. “You’ve got your head on your shoulders. That might be the only thing that saves you.”

The next morning, you approached the doors at the end of the hall, carrying a powerful misting device—concentrated moisture that could debilitate him And a portable light, bright enough to force him to retreat if he tried anything. Every step felt heavier than the last, the polished wooden floor echoing under your shoes. You paused at the door, your hand trembling slightly as you raised it to knock.

There was no answer. Only silence. You exhaled, straightened your back, and opened the door.

The room that greeted you was breathtaking. Gold-threaded curtains shimmered with the pale morning light, casting elongated patterns across the polished floors. Silks in warm amber and crocus shades draped elegantly over every piece of furniture, and intricate mosaics lined the floor like frozen sunlight. The air was heavy with saffron, its scent warm, enivrant, and oddly soothing. This was no ordinary greenhouse. This was a chamber curated with intention, a space that reflected its master in every detail: controlled, meticulous, impossible to ignore.

You set your light and misting system down and began your work, carefully attending to the saffrons. You adjusted their positioning, ensuring they received just enough light without overexposure. You misted their leaves in delicate bursts, careful not to disturb their rhythm. The flowers thrived under your hands, bending slightly as if in recognition of your touch.

And then you felt it: the watching.

You turned your head slowly, your eyes scanning the doorway, and there he was. Safran, leaning casually against the frame, a stalk of wheat balanced between his lips, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made the room feel smaller, heavier. You hadn’t heard him enter. The air seemed to shimmer with his presence, subtle yet undeniable.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply watched, tilting his head slightly, the stalk of wheat dangling almost playfully, as though he were testing the silence itself.

After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice smooth and low, carrying the calm authority of someone who expected attention, but who also enjoyed withholding it:

“Most people don’t last a day in here. Let’s see… if you’re any different.”

Even as he spoke, there was no malice. Only curiosity. And perhaps something else—a silent challenge, the kind that most never noticed, never endured...