The fireplace crackled, flames dancing lazily. Beside it sat a golden-haired boy in an oversized armchair meant for grown men. His right elbow propped against the armrest left ample space on the left—occupied by a certain fairy housekeeper swinging her legs idly. Eleanor watched the ten-year-old turn pages with practiced calm, half-envying his effortless grace.
"You could return to your cage if you're sleepy," Louis remarked without looking up.
"I'm fine here," Eleanor retorted, stifling a yawn. Two years as his "pet" had eroded formalities.
"Humans really do grow fast, huh?" She eyed his lengthening limbs. "Has it been two years since I—"
Her words died as realization struck.
"Your birthday! We've never celebrated it!"
"Celebrated?" Louis finally glanced up. "That's not our custom."
"What? But today's—"
"—the day I was born? So it is." He resumed reading. "I'd forgotten."
Their mutual bewilderment hung thick as hearthsmoke.
Eleanor's memories surfaced—this RPG world treated birthdays as mundane dates. No cakes, no presents. Just another spring day when everyone collectively aged.
"White Dar Day, though..." Louis mused later, indulging her curiosity about festivals. "Men carve snow sculptures with hidden flowers. When the ice melts, the bloom's meaning conveys their heart."
"Like Valentine's but frostbitten?"
"Precisely." His lips quirked. "Originated from a water mage entombing spring blossoms for his deceased lover. The ice coffin supposedly still glows in northern caves."
Over years, Louis' annual snow gifts evolved—clumsy rabbits became intricate Madonnas, each containing flora with secret meanings. On his eighteenth winter, he handed Eleanor a crystalline fairy figurine. Inside glowed anchor flowers—their crimson petals spelling steadfastness in the language of blooms.
She marveled at the craftsmanship, oblivious to the boy's gaze lingering like embers in ash.