The garden looked as beautiful as ever. The spot where he sat was surrounded by snowdrop flowers, which symbolized hope in the language of flowers. Soren—now Zephyr—was dressed in a soft cotton, plain white shirt and khaki pantaloons, seated comfortably on a chair. He had asked George to place him there at least an hour ago.
On the table in front of him were black and deep crimson roses, symbolizing despair. But there was a subtle detail most would overlook: the roses had been plucked and arranged in a vase, lifeless, while the snowdrops remained rooted in the ground, still alive.
Soren quietly sipped chamomile tea, known for its calming and healthful properties, while reading a book in silence.
Soren gazed up at the sky, and any observer could tell that this young man was grappling with something deep within. He looked like someone on the verge of losing control, yet clinging desperately to stability.
He was waiting for someone, occasionally checking the time on his round pocket watch—an ornate piece with three embedded stones, likely diamonds or rhinestones. The chain was crafted from multiple strands of interlinked metal, featuring a T-bar connector and a dog clip, the kind used to attach a watch securely to one's attire.
Soren heard faint footsteps and looked up from his book, noticing the guest approaching. He was a man with a light complexion and dark brown hair styled in gentle waves, accompanied by a well-groomed beard. He appeared to be middle-aged, with a slightly tired look in his eyes.
His attire was formal: a tailored tailcoat, trousers, and lace-up leather boots. He carried a walking stick and wore a top hat, with a pocket watch tucked neatly into his coat—a picture of refined, old-world elegance.
"If I'm correct in assuming, then you must be Dr. Alfred," Soren said with a smile. He wanted to stand and greet the man properly, but unfortunately, he was helpless in that regard.
"I apologize. Despite our nearly equal status, I cannot offer a proper greeting. Please forgive my rudeness," Soren added. One of the more difficult things about being Zephyr was the way he had to speak—like a noble.
What a pain in my head, Soren thought, mentally sighing after trying to find the right words to address the gentleman before him.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Zephyr," Alfred replied, bowing slightly and removing his hat as a show of courtesy.
Soren gestured for him to sit beside him.
Alfred took the seat beside him.
"To speak candidly, I had not anticipated an invitation from the elusive young master—the son of Lord Alexander himself. You are well known for your reserved nature, your strong aversion to Vielers, and, if I may be so bold, your steadfast refusal of any form of treatment, even amidst your parents' earnest pleas," Alfred said.
"I am well aware that I have not been the most agreeable individual when it comes to such matters. However, the reason I have summoned you—esteemed physician of the realm, honored by His Majesty himself with the title of Viscount—is because I seek to change for the better. I now endeavor to hold a more hopeful view of life, rather than surrendering to despair. Thus, I have requested your esteemed presence for a proper examination
You possess quite the silver tongue and a gift for flattery—traits your father does not often exhibit. Very well, I shall examine you, but we must do so indoors," Alfred said, a smile tugging at his lips, clearly entertained.
"You have my sincere gratitude, Lord Alfred. However, I must insist that you take your rest for now. We shall proceed with the examination come evening. My attendants shall escort you to your chambers and ensure you have all that you require," Soren said, gesturing gracefully toward the servant, his smile calm and composed.
The servants took Alfred with them, and Soren remained seated in the chair. The moment Alfred disappeared from sight, Soren let out a big sigh and asked Sophie to bring him some biscuits.
"Sometimes I understand why Zephyr didn't want to interact with people. All that flattering and those complicated words—ugh, it's too much for a simple conversation. I need a biscuit for energy," he said, with a mix of cute frustration.
If my old self saw me right now, he'd probably laugh so hard he'd fall over," Soren thought while eating the biscuits Sophie had brought.
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It was evening. Sophie had just returned, informing him that his parents would be arriving in about 10 to 20 days. The doctor had already examined him and was currently busy preparing the report. During this time, Soren couldn't help but worry—what might the report reveal? Was his condition even curable?
His mother, from when he was still Soren, was a brave woman who had fought cancer. That experience had taught Soren to be courageous and resilient, even in the face of difficult challenges. But despite that, he still felt a heavy sadness and worry—what if his legs truly weren't curable? What if he would never be able to stand up again?
"Look," Alfred began with a heavy sigh, his brows furrowed in concern as he handed the file to Soren, "even though I hold the rank of Thread 10 as an apothecary, your condition is so severely complicated that not even a Thread 8 of my Depth could guarantee a complete recovery."
He paused, his gaze shifting slightly as if weighing his words. "There are numerous complications—chief among them, your refusal of treatment in the past, which allowed the condition to deteriorate. But more critically…" he looked Soren in the eye, his voice quieter now, "you are a child born of two immensely powerful Vielers, each around Thread 5 or 6. In most cases, a child inherits the characteristics of one parent. But you, Lord Zephyr… you possess the traits of both."
Alfred straightened slightly, his tone grim. "That rare fusion has made most healing, spiritual, or neurological techniques below Thread 5 completely ineffective on your body. That leaves us with only one practical path… amputation, below the knees."
He looked away for a moment, clearly struggling with the weight of his words. "I'm truly sorry," he added softly.