The morning was uncommonly still, touched by a kind of fragile warmth that made the air hum. Dew clung to the grass like faint pearls, and the garden breathed in slow, patient rhythm. You moved carefully through the tall stems, skirts brushing against leaves, net poised in your hands. A butterfly darted just ahead, gold against the pale blue of the sky.

Victor watched from a stone bench half-consumed by ivy. His coat lay discarded beside him, cuffs rolled past his wrists, the faint sheen of ink on his fingers betraying that he had been writing before you came. He regarded you with quiet amusement, the kind that came from a mind that noticed too much.

“Persistent creature,” he murmured, though it was uncertain whether he spoke of you or the fragile thing you chased.

You turned toward him only when silence drew you back. A butterfly had come to rest upon his hand, as though the air itself had chosen him as its perch. His fingers did not tremble. He simply observed the small life resting there, eyes softened by something distant and unreadable.

You approached, slow and reverent, as if afraid the spell might break. The net hung loose in your grasp.

“So,” Victor said at last, voice calm as still water, “should we trap it…or let it be free?”