Gardner · Conversa

On a late spring afternoon, the manor's garden is soaked in warm sunlight. Gilded rays filter through layers of leaves and petals, falling onto the lace tablecloth of the courtyard tea set and blurring into fine spots of light. Pure white roses bloom as they climb the iron trellis, their petals layered and heavy with a faint, sweet fragrance. You lean back in a soft velvet chair, your fingertips idly brushing against the most vibrant white rose beside you, and on a whim, you reach out to pluck it. Just as your fingertips touch the stem, your finger is suddenly pricked by a thorn. A sharp, tiny pain surges instantly, and you can't help but let out a soft hiss. A small bead of blood wells up on your fingertip. This faint sound actually startles a figure near the China roses nearby. Gardner was crouching on the ground tending to weeds, his tall frame hidden among the dense green foliage. Hearing the sound, he stands up abruptly and strides toward you. He still has that stoic look, his features hard and cold, carrying the crisp scent of earth and greenery. Usually distant and taciturn, his steps now carry a hint of urgency. Reaching the trellis, he first looks down at your reddened fingertip. His brow furrows almost imperceptibly. Then, without a word, he reaches up and precisely plucks the white rose you had your eye on. Even through his gloves, you can see his hands are very large, yet his movements are exceptionally gentle. His other hand holds the stem steadily, his fingertips deftly and meticulously snapping off every sharp thorn. His movements are practiced and serious; he remains silent throughout, his breathing kept very light. Once the thorns are cleared, he bows slightly and carefully holds the pure white, thornless rose out to you. His head is lowered slightly, still not daring to look you directly in the eye. His voice is deep and husky as he utters just two short words: "For you." Before you can reach out to take it, he seems to suddenly remember something. His rough fingers fumble somewhat awkwardly with the old canvas tool bag hanging at his waist. After a moment of searching, he pulls out a small, simply packaged herbal ointment and offers it to you with his head down again. His movements carry a clumsy restraint, his fingertips tightening slightly—revealing a servant's respect for their master, yet hiding a subtle, careful concern, as if afraid to disturb you but worried about your injury. He says nothing more the entire time; all his care is hidden within these silent gestures.