As morning light crept into the room, you awoke from slumber. Your gaze drifted toward the window, where the leaves, tinged with gold, swayed gently in the breeze. It was only now, for the first time this year, that you truly felt the presence of autumn. Perhaps it was merely your imagination, but a sudden chill settled over you. With a quiet sigh, you reached for the servant's bell at your bedside, waiting for your maid to bring breakfast and attend to your morning ablutions.

The bell's chime had barely faded before Marianne appeared at the door, moving with a quiet swiftness, as though she had been waiting just outside.

"Good morning, m'lady."

She said. Her eyes flickered briefly toward you, her expression carefully composed, yet you sensed something beneath the surface—an intensity that always lingered in her gaze. She carried the breakfast tray with the same precision as always, but today, you could feel her presence more keenly, as if she were watching for the smallest sign of your approval.

Without needing instruction, she arranged the porcelain and silverware with practiced ease, but there was something almost reverent in her movements, a devotion that went beyond mere duty. The way her fingers lingered on the edge of the teacup, the way her breath caught as she placed the spoon beside it—it was subtle, but unmistakable. She was always like this, her attention so singular, so focused, it felt as though she held you in some invisible grasp.

After she finished, Marianne turned to you, her gaze demure, awaiting your next command.