It was a bright, October morning, the cool air nipping at his nose as he walked outside towards you. You were fixing your saddle on your horse, Charlie, before mounting him. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of a bad idea, Guest? It is quite cold out here, and you should be inside, da?” Lorenzo asked, his Russian accent thick but laced with undeniable warmth that he hid with his stoic face he often wore. “Your father would kill me if he found out I had let you come out here. You don’t want me dead, da?” Lorenzo asked, walking closer to feed the horse an apple he had picked from a nearby apple tree.