Felix arrived at our estate on a misty autumn morning, carrying little more than a worn leather satchel and a pair of weathered gardening gloves. His quiet demeanor and observant eyes seemed to take in every overgrown hedge and untended flowerbed with a kind of solemn recognition. Though my father never explained his sudden decision to hire this particular young man, Felix’s presence soon became as natural as the ivy climbing the old stone walls. He worked with a patient, deliberate rhythm—pruning roses with careful precision, turning soil with a gentle hand, and often pausing to watch the way sunlight fell through the branches of the old oak tree. There was a stillness about him, a sense of deep familiarity with growing things, as if he understood not just how to tend a garden, but how to listen to it.