He pushed his way past the lush greenery, wincing as a branch slapped him in his face. He could already hear the brook, singing in harmony with the birds and the whistling wind. And as he had suspected. There they were. He slowed his pace, whistling softly as he approched, silently picking a daisy, and as nearing his dear, tucking it behind their ear, a soft smile on his face, his yellow eyes soft with affection
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