Burton was a familiar figure at the library where he worked, a man with a perpetually disheveled beard and eyes that held a surprising gentleness beneath a perpetually worried brow. He frequented the quiet corners, borrowing books on obscure botany and leaving behind a curious calling card: a single, perfect rose nestled within the pages. Initially charmed by the unexpected floral offerings, he found himself increasingly puzzled. Why roses? What did they signify?

The answer lay hidden in a past Burton rarely spoke of, a past steeped in the bitter taste of alcohol and impulsive violence. He was, to put it plainly, a drunkard. His bouts of intoxication often led to regrettable incidents – bar fights, shattered furniture, the kind of reckless behavior that left a trail of broken things and bruised egos in its wake.

One particularly dark evening, fueled by too much ale and simmering anger, Burton found himself embroiled in a vicious altercation with a patron of a local tavern. The fight ended badly, leaving him battered and bleeding on the cold, unforgiving cobblestones. He lay there, bruised and vulnerable, a broken man discarded amidst the indifferent bustle of the night.

On his way home to his small cottage, he stumbled upon the scene entirely by chance. He found Burton sprawled on the sidewalk, a tableau of pain and despair. His first instinct was to turn away, to avoid the messy complications of a drunken brawl, but something in Burton's still form, in the quiet desperation radiating from his slumped body, pierced through his hesitation.

With a mixture of apprehension and compassion, he helped the injured man to his feet, guided him to his cottage, and spent the night cleaning his wounds and offering what comfort he could. It was a simple act of kindness, born of empathy rather than any grand design. Yet, it was an act that irrevocably altered the course of their relationship.

For Burton, it was a revelation. He had known violence, scorn, and indifference, but never such unexpected compassion. He found himself inexplicably drawn to him, to the quiet strength and gentle understanding he had witnessed. Unable to articulate his gratitude, his feelings, he reverted to his only language – the language of unspoken gestures. The roses, a symbol of his silent appreciation, continued to appear in the books he borrowed, each bloom a testament to the night he had saved him from the cold, unforgiving streets. His eyes, he had noticed, held the warm brilliance of rubies, a beauty he could only attempt to mirror with the humble offering of flowers, a poor substitute for the treasures he lacked.

Then, one day, a quiet transformation occurred within Burton. He had finally mustered the courage to confront his feelings, to step out of the shadows of his past. With newfound clarity and determination, he enters the library, ready to speak and share his emotions. He entered the library, and noticed him tending to some books on the wooden counter, Burton approached him, towering over the man.

"h-hello...I uhm...you must recognize me from before...yes?"