The song flowed through the air.
Megrie spun once, her skirt lifting before slowly settling back down.
Just as she was about to continue the next line of the melody—
She felt a gaze upon her.
Not an illusion.
Not the wind.
But the unmistakable sensation of eyes truly resting on her.
Her voice stopped abruptly.
The melody broke midair, as if someone had seized it by the throat.
Megrie turned around.
At the other end of the garden, Loya stood beneath a tree.
A book lay at his feet, fallen to the ground.
Their eyes met in the sunlight.
In that instant, Megrie's mind went blank.
—Oh no.
She had been singing.
Dancing.
Even using the broom as a microphone.
The smile on her face stiffened, as if doused with cold water.
Loya parted his lips, as if to say something—
But before he could—
"Me. Gr. Ie."
A voice rang out coldly from the garden entrance,
sharp and emotionless, like a blade.
Megrie's entire body froze.
She didn't even need to turn around to know who it was.
Nata.
The sharp clicks of high heels echoed against the stone path, steady and precise.
Each step felt as though it were being pressed directly onto Megrie's nerves.
"I told you to clean the garden,"
Nata said evenly, her tone carrying an unmistakable sense of superiority,
"not to sing and dance."
Megrie lowered her head, fingers tightening around the broom handle.
"I'm sorry, madam," she said.
Her voice was kept low.
Loya stepped forward instinctively.
"Mother, she was just—"
"Just what?"
Nata turned her head and shot him a cold glance.
That single look lodged his words in his throat.
"Have you been too idle lately?"
Nata turned back to Megrie, the corner of her mouth curling into a faint smile.
"If you still have the energy to sing, it means you haven't been given enough work."
She lifted a hand and pointed toward the edge of the flowerbeds.
"All the fallen leaves there—clean them again."
"And the stone path behind the fountain. I don't want to see a speck of dust."
Megrie clenched her teeth.
"Yes."
She bent down, picked up her broom, and turned away.
As she passed by Loya, the distance between them was so close they nearly brushed shoulders.
He caught a faint scent clinging to her—
Not flowers.
Not perfume.
But something that reminded him of warm food.
His chest tightened sharply.
"…Wait."
The word slipped from his throat almost against his will.
Nata halted.
"Loya?" She turned back, displeased.
Loya stood still, his fingers unconsciously curling into his palm.
He didn't know why he had spoken.
He only knew—
He didn't want that moment from earlier
to be crushed so easily.
But under Nata's gaze, he said nothing more.
"…It's nothing," he muttered.
Nata let out a cold snort and turned away.
The garden fell silent once more.
Only the sound of a broom scraping against stone remained.
Megrie kept her head lowered, sweeping again and again.
Her frame was slender—
yet her back remained straight.
Loya stood where he was, watching her retreating figure.
The strange feeling in his chest not only failed to fade—
It grew clearer.
For the first time, he realized—
What he had just seen
was not an "ugly maid."
It was someone—
A Megrie he had never truly known.
That night, Loya tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
Moonlight slipped quietly through the window, spilling across the desk and floor,
yet never reaching his heart.
When he closed his eyes, the scene from the garden replayed again and again.
The figure spinning with her skirt lifted.
The unfamiliar yet gentle melody.
And—
The unguarded smile she wore beneath the sunlight.
Loya frowned, pressing a hand against his chest.
"…This is strange."
He had always found Megrie irritating.
Ever since she grew thin.
Ever since she no longer looked like a "lord's daughter," but like a maid who might collapse at any moment.
He hadn't merely ignored her—
He had deliberately made things difficult.
When she finished cleaning the corridor, he would "accidentally" dirty it again.
When she knelt to scrub the floor, he would stand nearby and urge her to hurry.
Back then, he told himself—
She was no longer the person she used to be.
But that certainty wavered for the first time that afternoon.
"Is she… really that unbearable?"
Loya sat up and let out a long breath.
He didn't want to admit it,
but one fact refused to leave him—
When Nata reprimanded her,
his first reaction wasn't satisfaction.
It was—
Discomfort.
The feeling only made him more restless.
The next morning.
Loya woke earlier than usual.
He stood by the table, watching as a maid served breakfast.
Bread. Thick soup. Slices of meat.
The portions were the same as always.
His gaze lingered on the bowl of soup, and suddenly something occurred to him.
Yesterday in the garden—
Hadn't Megrie's stomach growled before she started singing?
His movement paused.
"…Wait."
The maid stopped, looking at him in confusion.
Loya hesitated, then spoke as if it were nothing more than a casual remark.
"This is… a bit much."
He pushed a small piece of bread aside and ladled out some of the soup.
"And that…"
He looked away, deliberately casual.
"Give it to the maid cleaning the garden."
The maid froze for a moment, then nodded.
"Yes, young master."
Loya turned and left, his steps quicker than usual.
He told himself—
It was just being considerate.
Just avoiding waste.
Yet as he walked down the corridor,
his chest inexplicably felt lighter.
In a corner of the garden,
Megrie crouched by the flowerbeds, clearing away dead leaves.
Her fingers were red from long hours of labor.
Then, a shadow fell beside her.
"This…"
She looked up to see a maid setting down a small portion of bread and half a bowl of soup on the stone table.
"Someone asked me to give this to you."
Megrie froze.
The maid said nothing more and turned away.
Megrie stared at the food in silence for a long moment.
It wasn't much.
It could hardly be called a proper meal.
But in this castle—
It was something that should never have belonged to her.
Slowly, she reached out and lifted the bowl of soup.
Warmth seeped into her palms.
She murmured softly, as if to herself—
or to someone unseen—
"…Thank you."
From the corner of a distant corridor,
Loya watched for a while.
Only after he saw her truly take the bowl in her hands
did he turn away.
The tension at the corner of his mouth loosened, just slightly.
And he did not yet know—
That this small act of "convenience"
had already quietly crossed a line.