The gentle perfume of roses filled the air as I walked through the meticulously kept garden that led to Elara Trent's quarters. The widow of Hugo—or rather, Orion—had been isolating herself in grief since her husband's death. While I understood her need for space, the fact that she'd withdrawn even from her young son Davey troubled me deeply.
"Are you sure she'll see me?" I asked Iris, who guided me through the flowering paths. My hand automatically cradled my swollen belly, a habit that had become second nature during my pregnancy.
"She hasn't turned anyone away directly," Iris replied, her voice tinged with concern. "She simply... doesn't engage. But if anyone can reach her, Seraphina, I believe it's you."
I wasn't so certain. What qualified me to counsel someone through such profound grief? Yet I couldn't ignore the young boy who needed his mother, especially when that mother was drowning in sorrow.
