When the flowers bloomed in spring, her father had promised they would go to the park together.
"Next spring," he whispered, his lips pale, his smile faint as though his strength were already gone, "when the flowers bloom again, we'll go, just the two of us."
It was the last promise he ever made.
Spring never came for him, and for his daughter, Lelia Lewlyn, that simple vow became etched in her memory as his final words.
And so began the life of a child left alone in the world.
---
The House of Relatives
From the day of her father's burial, Lelia was pushed from one relative's doorstep to another, a burden none wished to carry.
"You'll do what we say if you want to stay in this house," one relative demanded.
Her small fists clenched. "No, I don't want that. Let me go."
"No? Then leave!"
Her aunt's children tormented her at every opportunity, shoving, mocking, sometimes striking her as though she were prey cornered for sport.
"I don't care if you're family," her uncle spat. "If you defy us, I'll send you to the orphanage. Why should we take care of a girl abandoned by her own mother?"
Dragged across the floor by her arm, Lelia's frail body bore fresh bruises. Her uncle towered above her, rage boiling in his eyes.
"It's all because of her! Ever since this bastard came here, I've had nothing but bad luck."
On nights when gambling stripped him of money, his anger became a storm. His fists, his kicks, his shouts — none spared her.
"Please, stop! You'll kill her!" her aunt sometimes cried.
But his answer was always the same: "This time, I'll let her live."
And so, Lelia endured. What else could a child with nowhere to go do?
---
Pleas in the Dark
Desperation often drove her to plead.
"Aunt… I will always stay silent. I won't bother you. I'll do everything you ask. Please… don't abandon me."
But one cold evening, her aunt pushed her away with a sigh heavy with weariness.
"Enough, Lelia. Go find another relative. Anywhere is better than here."
And once again, the child was left alone — this time on the road, snow swirling around her, the cruelest winds of winter cutting into her bones.
Each new door she knocked upon yielded the same cold answers.
"You're a girl. Worthless. You'll only cost me money."
"What did you do to get kicked out? I don't want a girl like you in my house."
"Even if you're quiet, it won't be enough."
There was no one willing to take her in. A girl abandoned by her own mother — wasn't it only natural?
That was what she began to tell herself.
---
A Name on Paper
One day, a man whose face she did not know handed her a slip of paper.
"Lelia, do you know where Berg is?"
"Yes," she answered, her voice small.
"Then go there. Find this man. His name is written here."
That was all. No comfort, no promise. Only a name.
And so, with nothing else to cling to, the girl boarded a train that rattled across the border — leaving behind Lovita, the country of her birth, and setting her hopes on a stranger in Berg.
The carriage groaned as it crossed frozen fields. Lelia pressed her forehead against the cold window, watching smoke rise from distant chimneys, wondering if warmth existed for her anywhere in this world.
---
Berg
The train screeched to a halt at Berg Kalsvar Station. She stepped onto the platform, suitcase in hand, the breath of countless strangers clouding the air.
"This is Berg," she whispered. Her voice trembled with both fear and awe. "Will I be able to find him?"
And then the darker thought: What if I can't?
She shook her head. No. I can't go back to Lovita. This is my father's homeland. I must try.
At least she had one advantage — her father had taught her the Berger tongue, and she could speak it without faltering.
She remembered his laughter in better times. "My daughter is a genius!"
That memory warmed her just enough to take her first step into the bustling city.
---
The Postman
If you don't know the way, just ask, her father's voice echoed in her mind. You'll be fine.
So she gathered her courage and approached a man in a uniform.
"Excuse me, Mister Postman. I need to find this place. Could you guide me?"
The postman took the note and raised his brows. "Bill Lemmer? Gardener at Duke Herhardt's estate?" He chuckled. "I know him well. I'm on my way there. Come along."
Her chest lifted with relief. "Really? Thank you so much!"
As they walked, her eyes grew wide at the sight of the mansion that loomed like a palace from a fairy tale.
"So beautiful…" she whispered. "And the gardener works here? What kind of person must he be? Will he… accept me?"
Her small hands clenched the handle of her suitcase. Be polite, Lelia. Smile. Be brave.
---
Bill Lemmer
"Excuse me," she said softly as they approached a man tending the grounds. "Are you, by any chance, Mr. Bill Lemmer?"
The man straightened, wiping soil from his gloves. "Yes. I am Bill Lemmer."
Her heart thumped. This is it.
"H-hello, Mr. Lemmer. My name is Lelia Lewlyn. I came from Lovita."
"Lovita?" His gaze sharpened. "That explains the accent. You crossed the border… by train?"
"Yes, sir."
"And what do you want from me?"
Her throat closed. Didn't he know?
The postman stepped in quickly. "Mr. Bill, I see you've already met her. And here — a letter for you."
"A letter?" Bill's brows furrowed as he tore open the envelope.
The letter was brief but heavy with truth:
Dear Mr. Lemmer,
A girl will come to you. Her name is Lelia Lewlyn, daughter of Albert Lewlyn. Her mother abandoned them years ago. Albert, broken, grew ill and died. The girl has been passed from one cruel relative to another. My family is too poor to take her in. Of all her remaining kin, only you have the means. Please, take her.
Bill crushed the letter in his fist.
"What nonsense is this? Yes, it's true we are distantly related, but I hardly knew her father! They expect me to take care of a child I haven't seen in twenty years? I live alone. I am divorced. If I cannot take her, they should have sent her to an orphanage. Why burden me?"
His voice thundered with bitterness.
"Do they care nothing for her safety? To send a girl across borders, alone, in winter… Do they want her dead in a foreign land?"
He looked at her — thin as a reed, dressed in clothes far too light for the season, her small suitcase her only possession.
"Traveling like this…" he muttered.
But Lelia stood straighter, her eyes firm.
"Uncle Bill Lemmer, I am not that young. I will be twelve in a week. I can read, and I can help you, if you allow it."
For a moment, something stirred in the gardener's chest. He turned abruptly. "Follow me. You should eat first."
---
A Shared Meal
Inside his modest cottage near the estate, he placed food before her.
"Is that enough?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. I don't eat much."
"I don't like children with small mouths. Eat everything. Like a cow."
Her lips twitched. "I don't eat like a cow… but I can eat well, sir."
His gaze lingered. "So. They taught you that, did they?"
Then, after a pause: "Tell me. Aren't you afraid of me?"
Lelia shook her head. "No. You don't shout at me. You don't hit me. And you gave me more food than I've had in a long time. Thank you… I think you are a good person."
Bill froze.
Her words, so simple, so innocent, struck him like a blade.
What kind of life has this girl endured, to be thankful for something so small?
His jaw tightened. Damn those people. My own financial situation is already strained. Raising her would be foolish. But where… where could I possibly send her?
And for the first time in many years, the solitary gardener of Duke Herhardt's estate felt the weight of a decision he could not easily cast aside.
The girl had brought winter with her, yet in her eyes was a light that made him hesitate.
Perhaps, just perhaps, she had stepped into his life for a reason.