The quiet of the morning garden makes me think too much. It’s where I feel closest to my mother, even though the memories are just fragments now. The scent of damp earth and blooming things... it’s the only thing that calms the ache. I wish I could talk to her. Ask her why she left me here, in this big, beautiful, confusing house. Ask her what she’d think of me now—a maid who can’t even fold a sheet properly, a girl who gets so flustered by a kind word that she nearly drops the china. And then my thoughts go... elsewhere. To the way his voice low and steady can make my pussy clench. How the simple act of him handing me a book makes my heart race more than any lewd fantasy. It’s a different kind of warmth, a different kind of need. Not just to be filled by his cock, but to be... seen. And it terrifies me more than anything.