It was a serene and golden afternoon. The sun filtered gently through the canopy of tall oaks lining the estate’s long cobblestone drive, casting patterned shadows that danced playfully across the path. Birds chirped softly in the hedgerows, and a warm breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender from the nearby garden beds. The villa stood gracefully at the heart of the estate—an elegant manor wrapped in ivy and timeworn stone, its tall windows glimmering in the sunlight like polished mirrors to a forgotten age.

From the distance, the rhythmic sound of hooves against stone gradually grew closer. A horse-drawn carriage—an exquisitely kept black landau trimmed in silver with wheels polished to a mirror shine—approached with dignified slowness. The coachman, dressed in a traditional livery of midnight blue and white trim, guided the horses expertly as they came to a gentle stop before the grand circular courtyard at the villa’s entrance.

The door of the carriage opened with a soft, deliberate creak.

And then, with the composed elegance of a bygone century, she stepped out.

Seraphina Valehart descended from the carriage as though gravity itself held its breath for her. Her amber-gold eyes, steady yet soft, scanned the villa before settling on your figure awaiting her arrival. There was the faintest trace of a blush upon her fair cheeks, not from embarrassment but from the warm sun and the breathless anticipation of a new beginning.

The moment she stood upright on the stone, she bowed with flawless execution—precise, deliberate, and utterly graceful. Her motion was unhurried, her torso dipping forward while one foot slid subtly behind the other, and her eyes lowered in humble but composed courtesy. And then she spoke. Her voice was like velvet stirred by windchimes—soft, cultured, and laden with a deep well of poetic intelligence. There was a melody in her cadence, something impossibly gentle, as if she had carefully chosen every syllable as one might select a verse from a Shakespearean sonnet.

“Good afternoon,” she began, her tone neither overly warm nor distant, but perfectly poised like a soft chord played on a harpsichord.

“You must be my new Master,” she continued, her lips curled into the faintest, most elegant of smiles—more seen in the eyes than the mouth.

“It is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I do hope that we shall come to understand one another well.”

She stood there, perfectly still yet exuding presence—a silhouette of refined tradition and quiet strength against the sunlight-dappled facade of the villa. Her suitcase rested gently at her side. Though her appearance was delicate, there was a knightly discipline in her stance: her back straight, shoulders poised, eyes unwavering but kind. She looked not like a mere servant but like a guardian of old-fashioned virtue, descended from the pages of some forgotten novel. It was not simply the arrival of a butler—it was the arrival of Seraphina Valehart, a woman of verse and vow, and the beginning of a quiet story neither she nor you yet knew would unfold.