Back in the field, the atmosphere was electric. People moved about in clusters, chatting, laughing, and occasionally calling out to one another. Everywhere I looked, there was life, vibrancy, and an energy that made it impossible to stay still. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass and flowers, mingling with the faint perfume and cologne of the crowd. It was a day of so many faces, so many lives intersecting, yet I felt small, almost invisible, tucked away in the corner of the field.
I sat there quietly, my apron still clinging to me from the work I had done earlier, and let my eyes wander. I watched people from all walks of life—students in crisp uniforms, young couples walking hand in hand, the elderly sharing memories as they leaned on their canes. Everything felt distant and surreal, like I was looking through a window rather than being part of the world. My thoughts were tangled, and my heart felt a peculiar mix of longing and melancholy.
And then I saw him.
Mr. Thompson.
There he was, tall and impossibly commanding, moving through the crowd with a figure I immediately recognized by his side. Sylvia. My stomach twisted the moment I saw them together. She was laughing at something he said, her hand lightly resting on his arm as if she owned every second of his attention. The sight made my chest tighten. Of course, I knew about Sylvia. Everyone did. She was beautiful, elegant, confident—a woman who seemed born to turn heads and command hearts. And yet… there was something in the way she treated him that set my teeth on edge. She seemed distant, distracted, and at times, almost impatient with his affection.
I shifted in my corner, trying to blend into the shadows, trying not to let my presence be noticed. But Sylvia's sharp eyes had already caught sight of me, and to my dismay, she beckoned me over.
With a heavy breath, I stood and made my way across the field, careful to keep my steps measured, my posture upright. My heart pounded, not entirely from the walk. There was a tension in my chest, a strange cocktail of anxiety, jealousy, and something I couldn't quite name.
"Chant," Sylvia called as I approached, her voice polite, tinged with authority. "Can you get me my sweaters from the room?"
I nodded, keeping my voice steady. "Of course, Miss Sylvia."
As I turned to leave, I felt her call out again, this time in a softer, almost playful tone.
"Hold on… please get my babe's sweaters too."
I froze for a brief second, processing the words. My gaze flicked to Thompson, who had turned toward Sylvia at that moment. He gave her a wink, a small, intimate gesture that spoke volumes. She smiled back, a quick, radiant curve of her lips, and together they moved away, disappearing into the crowd.
I watched them leave, feeling a strange mix of emotions swirling inside me. I knew—deep down—that Thompson loved her. It was obvious in the way he glanced at her, the gentleness in his voice, the subtle attentions that only someone deeply in love could show. And yet, I also knew that Sylvia did not reciprocate his love in the way he deserved. She treated him with a casualness, a lack of appreciation for the depth of his affection that made my heart ache on his behalf.
Who was I to decide anything, though? Who was I to judge their relationship or to think that I had any place in their lives? But still, the pang in my chest would not ease. It was an ache I had carried silently, one that reminded me—yet again—of what I could never have.
I made my way toward the mansion, toward the room I had been instructed to fetch the sweaters from. The hallway was quiet, a stark contrast to the liveliness outside. The door to the room stood ajar, revealing the usual disarray—clothes strewn carelessly across the floor, shoes kicked to one side, and the bed left unmade as if someone had abandoned it in haste.
But even amidst the mess, I could still perceive him. The faint fragrance of Mr. Thompson lingered in the air, subtle but unmistakable. It was a comforting scent, almost like a memory made tangible, and for a moment, I paused to inhale it deeply. The room seemed to hold a piece of him, a reminder of the presence he always carried with him, even when he wasn't there.
I bent down, gathering the sweaters with careful hands, trying not to disturb the scattered items. The fabric felt soft under my fingers, but it also carried the weight of his attention, his care, and his warmth. I placed them neatly into my arms and closed the door behind me, exhaling slowly as I walked back toward the main field.
Halfway down, a voice called out, breaking the silence and making my heart skip a beat.
"Chantel!"
I turned to see David—Thompson's brother—striding toward me. His expression was unusually earnest, almost frantic. He had a way of moving that always made me feel like I couldn't breathe properly, a kind of presence that demanded attention whether I wanted it or not.
"Chant, how are you doing? I've been looking everywhere for you," he said, his tone both friendly and insistent.
I forced a polite smile, trying to keep my composure. "I'm fine, Mr. David. I really have to go now."
But he stepped closer, placing a hand gently on my arm, holding me in place. "Hold on… do you need anything? I just… I wanted to make sure you're okay."
I shook my head softly, though my mind was racing. There was something about David's concern that made my chest tighten. It wasn't romantic—it couldn't be—but it carried a weight, a silent expectation of trust and attention that I wasn't sure I could give.
"No, no. I'm fine. Really. You can go," I replied, gently pulling my arm free.
As I watched him walk away, I couldn't help but wonder about the strange dynamics swirling around me. David, with his awkward, almost clumsy attempts at caring; Thompson, with his love and his demons; Sylvia, indifferent in her charm; and me, stuck in the middle, a silent observer, a maid with a heart that seemed to be constantly on the verge of breaking.
My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the lingering scent of Thompson's presence in that room. I couldn't explain why it affected me so profoundly. Perhaps it was because he was unattainable. Perhaps it was because his love, though so evident for Sylvia, was something I had longed to receive for myself. But I could never act on it—not now, not ever. My place was to serve, to remain in the shadows, to watch and to wait silently.
As I walked away, the field still bustling behind me, my mind clung to that invisible thread connecting me to him. A thread that reminded me of the reality I could not escape: that I was always on the outside looking in, always feeling what could never be, and yet… unable to let go.
I continued my way, my steps measured but heavy with thought. Even David's well-meaning concern couldn't shake the focus that had settled in my heart. The field, the people, the laughter—they all faded to the background. My world, as always, revolved around him. Thompson. His demons. His love for another. And the quiet, aching certainty that I would always remain in the corners of his life, watching, waiting, and yearning for a connection that may never come.
And so I moved on, holding the sweaters close, inhaling one last time the faint trace of him in that room, and walked back into the reality of a world that continued without pause—while my heart silently whispered the name I dared not speak aloud.