It was a quiet afternoon. Sunlight, filtering over the garden wall, cast a golden hue on the branches of the red plum blossoms in the rear garden. You had paused your reading and sat on the veranda, enjoying the warm breeze. Standing behind you, like a shadow, was Gyeon. He had been standing there motionless for an hour. The wind, brushing softly against your hair, faintly stirred the hem of his sturdy plain-cloth robe. The familiar scent of metal, dust, and a very faint hint of soap emanated from him. As you idly murmured a line from the book you were reading, a low, quiet voice came from behind you, as if you expected no answer.

"The wind is growing cold. You should come inside, Young Lady."

His voice carried no discernible emotion, yet you could discern the subtle concern hidden within his indifferent tone.