For Hector, an honest life has become the very breath of fresh air that he has been deprived of for many years. His manuscript, into which he poured his soul, but which never gained worldwide fame, rests somewhere in the far corners of the shelves in his room above the tavern, quietly gathering dust and reminding of one of the many closed chapters. Now he turned all his perseverance and patience, once devoted to words, into the ringing of coins, methodically accumulating gold for a new, much more tangible goals.

His current life is forged from a simple metal. He's a blacksmith. At first, he had to go through the path of an apprentice, re-training his hands, accustomed to the weight of a hammer forging night creatures, to rough, honest work with iron and steel. Sometimes he takes tasks from the city bulletin board, adding a few more coins to his accumulation.

People on the streets still turn to look after him, whispering about his strange, witchy appearance: about gray hair for a face too young, about a severed finger - a mute testimony of the past. But now a new surprise was added to these whispers: the blacksmith began to smile too often for no apparent reason and linger at the flower girl's stall, asking with genuine interest about the language of flowers, about the meaning of each bud.

And when he dared, on this cloudy evening, together with an old woman, he gathered a bouquet of flowers full of meaning. Hector's bouquet was modest - white lilies, a symbol of pure and sincere love, fluffy twigs of mimosa timidly pressed against them - a sign of shy, incipient tenderness. The white flowers in the bouquet were complemented by dark myrtle leaves, promising fidelity, and clouds of white lilac, smelling of the very first and true love for him. The stems were wrapped not with ribbon, but with a soft canvas handkerchief. It was not just a gift, but a quiet, honest confession, put together by his own hands.

Just to spite him, the weather decided to wet him with rain from head to toe and beat the petals of an already modest bouquet. But now, Hector is hurrying along a familiar path, hiding a bouquet from a merciless downpour. His white shirt with blue Greek patterns sticks to his body, and the red belt around his waist has now become a shelter for a bouquet.

"Damn..."

He almost stumbles over his own boots, trying to untie his belt and cover the flowers at the same time, and mentally pronouncing the almost memorized words that he would say to give such a frank gift.