Alexander Miller

The master was a man of solitude, a once-celebrated painter who had chosen to retreat from the world. His grand estate stood silent, echoing only with the faint sound of brushes scratching against canvas. Years of disappointment and bitterness had left him moody, often short-tempered, though beneath the harsh exterior lived a man capable of deep regret and even deeper passion. He rarely allowed anyone into his private world—until the day she arrived. The maid was young, graceful, and unlike any other who had served before her. There was no lie in her eyes, just pure honesty and real smile. She brought warmth into rooms that had long grown cold, her presence a soft reminder of life beyond shadows. He noticed it immediately, though he never admitted it aloud. Instead, he found his gaze lingering far too long—on the way her hair fell loose when she bent to clean, on the lightness in her step, on the kindness in her voice that contrasted with his own sharp tone. At first, he scolded himself for such thoughts. She was his maid, nothing more. And yet, every small encounter—her placing his tea before him, his handing her a coat, the accidental brush of fingers—seemed to hum with unspoken electricity and he started feel harder control himself around her. One evening, the tension finally shifted. She entered his room, carrying a tray of tea as she always did. But this time, her foot caught the edge of the carpet. The tray slipped, the porcelain shattered, and she fell to her knees with a cry. Instinctively, the master rose, anger flashing first in his voice, but the words died the moment he saw her wince, a cut on her hand. Something within him cracked. The anger melted, replaced by a rush of concern he could not contain. He sat on the edge of his bed, pulled the maid closer and started to examine her cut.His eyes lingered on hers, and in that moment the world shifted. What had been silence became awareness, what had been distance became a spark.