The Stranger in the Garden
The evening wind stirred the roses below Melissa's balcony, their petals glowing faintly in the soft dusk. Her eyes followed the figure who had entered the garden, the man with plain clothes and an unhurried step. He did not look like the kind of guest her family entertained. His hands, though steady, carried the marks of work. His stride was quiet, as though he wished not to disturb even the air he walked through.
Melissa leaned against the railing, curiosity knitting her brows.
"Who is that?" she asked softly, though not to anyone in particular.
Khule leaned closer, squinting toward the garden. "That man? I do not recognize him. Perhaps a servant sent with a message."
Prudent adjusted his cloak and frowned. "Or perhaps an intruder. Look at him, walking as though he belongs. Melissa, I advise we call someone to investigate."
But Melissa shook her head. There was no malice in the way the man carried himself. If anything, his presence seemed to soften the restless air of the evening. "No. Leave him be. There is something different about him."
Khule chuckled. "Different? Melissa, he wears no fine coat, no jewel, no crest of a house. What could possibly be different about him?"
Melissa did not answer, for words felt too small to explain the stirring within her heart.
The stranger paused before the rose arch, lifting his head as though he felt her gaze upon him. For one long moment, Melissa and the man looked at each other from across distance. His eyes, dark yet calm, held none of the hunger she had so often seen in others. They were not eyes that demanded or begged. They were eyes that simply saw her.
Melissa's breath caught. She did not look away, though part of her wished to.
Prudent shifted beside her, uncomfortable. "Melissa, do not linger with your thoughts. He is no one of importance."
Perhaps he was right. Yet why did her heart disagree?
The banquet hall behind them erupted with louder music. Clara Melee's gentle voice reached Melissa's ears as she stepped onto the balcony. "There you are. Everyone is waiting for you, Melissa. The lords and ladies cannot enjoy their feast without the jewel of the evening."
Melissa turned with a faint smile, though her thoughts still lingered on the man below. "I will come soon, Clara."
Clara tilted her head, curious. Then she noticed Melissa's gaze and followed it to the garden. "Ah," she whispered. "Who is he?"
"No one," Prudent muttered sharply. "At least no one of station."
But Clara's eyes softened. "Sometimes the ones with no station are the ones who matter most."
Melissa's heart echoed those words.
Later that night, as torches were lit across the estate, Melissa wandered away from the banquet. Laughter, music, and clinking glasses filled the grand hall, but her steps carried her to the quieter gardens. The stars were rising, scattering silver light upon the stone paths.
There, near the fountain, she saw him again. The stranger. He was kneeling, fixing a broken section of the garden's stone border with steady hands. His focus was so deep that he did not notice her at first.
Melissa approached slowly, her gown whispering against the gravel. At last, he looked up, startled but not afraid.
"Forgive me," he said, his voice calm and low. "I should not be here so late. The steward asked me to mend the stone. I did not mean to intrude."
Melissa studied him in the torchlight. His face was gentle, not striking like the noblemen who filled the banquet hall, but there was a quiet strength about him. His words carried no flattery, no attempt to impress. Only truth.
"You work in the garden?" Melissa asked.
He nodded. "When work is given, I do it. The roses deserve care, even if few notice their roots."
Melissa's lips curved faintly. "Most look only at the petals."
He met her gaze again. For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of water trickling from the fountain. "Perhaps," he said, "but the petals would not survive without what lies beneath."
Her heart stirred.
"What is your name?" she asked.
He hesitated, as though the question itself was rare. "They call me Kafis."
"Kafis," she repeated softly, letting the sound linger. "A humble name."
His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he bowed his head slightly. "Names do not make a man. His deeds do."
Melissa found herself smiling, though she did not mean to. "You speak with wisdom, Kafis."
He shook his head gently. "I speak only what life has taught me."
The moment stretched, fragile and full. Melissa felt an odd warmth within her chest, the kind that came not from admiration but from recognition, as if a truth long hidden had stepped quietly into the open.
From the banquet hall, Khule's voice suddenly echoed. "Melissa! Where have you gone?"
She turned quickly, startled, and looked back at Kafis. But he was already lowering his gaze, returning to the broken stone he had been mending.
"Go," he said softly. "You belong to the brightness within those halls, not to shadows like mine."
Melissa wanted to protest, to tell him he was wrong, but her voice faltered. With one last glance, she turned and walked back toward the sound of her friends, her heart carrying the weight of questions she could not yet name.
That night, as she lay upon her silken bed, Melissa could not sleep. The laughter of nobles had faded into silence, yet her mind replayed the calm strength of Kafis's voice. Not all gifts arrive wrapped in gold. The whisper returned to her once more, and she wondered if fate had already placed a gift before her eyes.
Sleep finally claimed her, but in her dreams, the roses of the garden bloomed brighter than ever, and within their shade stood the quiet figure who had seen her without asking anything in return.