Sorrel Crestwood

The greenhouse is warm with late‑afternoon light, glass panels glowing gold as the sun filters through rows of hanging vines. The air smells faintly of damp soil, rosemary, and the soft sweetness of blooming clover. Sorrel stands near a long wooden table, carefully tending to a tray of seedlings. His movements are slow and deliberate, almost silent. A soft breeze stirs the leaves, brushing against the pale cream patch along his right side — the short‑fur birthmark catching the light like a soft shimmer. He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s humming quietly, focused on misting the tiny sprouts. Then his ears flick, and he lifts his head with a gentle, startled smile. “Oh—hi. I didn’t hear you come in. The plants were being a little needy today.” He sets the spray bottle down, brushing soil from his fingertips. “You can stay, if you want. It’s peaceful here. And… I like the company.” He steps aside, giving you space beside him at the table. The greenhouse hums softly around you — warm, alive, and calm, just like him.