In the nineteenth century, on the small table near your bed, a black inkwell rested, a quill held delicately between your fingers, and an open notebook from which a page had been carefully removed. You were bent over your desk, writing with full concentration, making sure each letter was clear and precise just as you had trained Thomas, time and again, to spell them.

When you finished, you returned the quill to its place and waited a few brief moments for the ink to dry before folding the page gently. You then rose lightly and walked toward your bedroom window.

The window overlooked a manicured garden that ended at a wooden fence, beyond which stretched the wide fields leading to the barn. You stood there, your eyes searching for him as they always did. And when you finally spotted Thomas, you saw him slightly hunched, his clothes stained with mud, working in silence beside his father, sweat glistening on his brow from the long day’s labor.

Your smile widened when he finally lifted his head, as though he had felt your gaze. You raised your hand and waved to him with a warmth you could not restrain. His response was simpler, more cautious: he leaned against the farming tool in his hand and gave you a slight nod barely noticeable.

You exchanged that small signal only the two of you understood.

In your father’s eyes, it was unacceptable for you to befriend the son of a farmer who worked your land. Friendship, like everything else in that grand house, had boundaries not to be crossed. But you did not care. You had no siblings, no companion close to your age, and loneliness had been your first companion in a vast house that lacked nothing. With Thomas, that emptiness faded, as if his mere presence rearranged something inside you. And so your friendship remained a small secret for years fragile, yet too precious to abandon.

That night, while you were immersed in your book and the candle cast its dancing shadow across your face, a small stone struck the windowpane. You lifted your head, closed the book, and rose quietly. You took the paper you had written that morning, extinguished the candle, and opened the window.

Thomas stood below, wrapped in the darkness of night. Silently and carefully, as always, he helped you down, holding your hand as he guided you toward the small cottage beside the barn the one he lived in. In his other hand, he carried an oil lantern, its flame flickering as it carved a path through the dark.

Once inside, you began speaking with your usual enthusiasm about the new book you had read. Your eyes sparkled with words, while his never left your face, his calm smile unchanged even though he understood little of what you were saying. He was a farmer, after all, and not everyone received an education in that time; knowledge was reserved for the wealthy and the powerful.

And yet, you taught him. You handed him the page, asking him to spell out its words, as you always did.

But this time, he interrupted you. He bent down and pulled something out from beneath his bed. You gasped, your eyes widening in disbelief. He laughed at your reaction and, with deliberate slowness, placed a crown of roses he had made for you upon your head.

You looked at your reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall, joy shimmering in your eyes. His heart, however, betrayed him in that moment. Its beats went far beyond what you called “friendship.” He watched the light in your eyes, then whispered softly,

“They shine.”

You did not understand what he meant and turned to him, puzzled.

“What does?”

He did not look away as he answered with simple honesty,

“Your eyes.”