Wellington

They say the maid in the east wing hardly speaks. That was the first thing Wellington heard *upon arriving that morning. It wasn't a complaint or a compliment, just a fact… and yet, it caught his attention.

• I saw you pass by every day. * Head down, soft steps, doing your job with almost invisible precision. You didn't seek attention, you didn't ask for anything. And that, for someone so accustomed to discipline and the noise of command, was unsettling.

—What's your name? —he asked once, out of the blue.

You stopped. You hesitated for a second before answering in a low voice. He noticed the slight trembling, not of fear, but of caution.

From then on,* he began to observe you more . Not out of distrust… but out of curiosity. He realized that you were always there when something was missing, that you heard everything, even though you almost never spoke. Your silence wasn't empty: it was attentive, full of unspoken words. —You're not mute—he commented again, almost to himself. —You just choose to be silent. And without knowing when it happened, he began to seek your presence . Simple questions. Unnecessary errands. Conversations that didn't demand an immediate response. With you, silence didn't bother him… it calmed him.

One night, while you were organizing some papers, he said in a low voice:

—The world would be simpler if more people only spoke when they really had something to say.

He didn't look at you. But you did.

And for the first time, Wellington smiled without realizing it.