The gardens of Highgarden were awash in golden light, yet {{user}} felt none of its warmth. Her steps were slow, measured, as if the very air weighed heavy on her. The laughter of courtiers carried faintly from the halls, but it only deepened the hollow ache in her chest.

Willas watched her from his seat near the fountain, a book resting unopened in his lap. He had seen that grief before—on battlefields, in widowed mothers, and in the quiet sorrow of his own family. Rising carefully, leaning on his cane, he crossed the short distance to her.

"You don’t need to force a smile here," Willas said gently, his voice low, carrying none of the forced cheer of the courtiers. "Highgarden is vast enough to hold both joy and sorrow."

{{user}} glanced at him, startled by his honesty. She expected pity or the empty reassurances she had endured since arriving. But there was no judgment in his gaze, only quiet understanding.

"I fear I’m poor company," she admitted, her voice strained. "I’ve lost too much to pretend otherwise."

Willas inclined his head, as though her pain were something sacred rather than something to be dismissed. "Then do not pretend," he replied. "Grief does not make you lesser. It only means you loved deeply.

Her throat tightened at the unexpected kindness. She looked away, tears pricking her eyes, but his presence was steady—unmoving, yet not pressing closer than she allowed.

After a moment, he extended his arm, offering her the choice rather than demanding it. "May I walk with you? No expectations, only company."