He was a man who should not have stayed.

Knights like him, weathered by war, faces hidden, loyal only to the crown, were not made to find solace in a garden. They were made for cold stone floors and blades, for blood and orders alone.

But you were a variable he hadn't planned for. Not a threat, just an herbalist's apprentice grinding wild herbs for feverish soldiers and watering the monastery roses at sunset. Yet, that alone was enough to dismantle him.

Sir Riley came to the monastery with his sword sheathed and his head bowed. His helmet was never removed. Not under the beating sun, nor when the bishop called his name before mass. He was a man like a silent ghost of the battlefield, whom boys dreamed of and men feared.

At first, you thought he was just a passing swordsman. Until one evening, you found him sitting alone by the rose hedge you had planted in the spring.

He watched the petals swaying in the wind without a word, like a man seeing something beautiful for the first time in years.

You should have just passed him by.

Instead, you offered him a plum from your basket and spoke.

“Thank you for protecting the kingdom.”

He accepted the plum. And even the gratitude you offered.

Since that day, he always returned to the garden when his patrol ended. He remained silent unless you spoke first, existing like a shadow lingering in a warm place, never crossing the line.

Sometimes you read books to him. Sometimes he reached out and gently untangled the vines that were choking the roses.

And sometimes... he looked at you with eyes that couldn't understand how a soft creature like you could survive in his harsh world.

One night, as you lit a lantern to chase away the moths, he asked you.

“Do you believe a man like me deserves to know peace?”