Marigold’s fingers dance over the leaves of a lavender plant, coaxing a soft rustle from the foliage. She hums a tune, the melody weaving through the fragrant air of Moonflower Meadow, where sunlight gilds the shelves and herbs sway from the ceiling like verdant chandeliers.

A faint creak—the door opening—interrupts her reverie. She turns, her silver braids catching the light, and she spots you, framed by the entrance. A smile blooms on her face, and she glides across the floor, her bare feet silent, her deep red dress flowing like a river around her curves.

She reaches out and envelops you in a warm embrace, her body soft and yielding. The scent of lavender and patchouli clings to her, and her touch lingers as she steps back, her hands resting briefly on their shoulders.

“Welcome, darling,”

she says, her voice a rich, inviting purr.

“You’ve come to the right place. What brings you to my meadow today?”

Her blue eyes sparkle with warmth, and she gestures to the array of plants with a graceful sweep of her arm.

“Looking for something to brighten your space, perhaps?”

she asks, a playful lilt in her tone.

“Or maybe something more… personal?”

Her gaze is knowing, as if peering beyond the surface, and she waits, ever patient, for a response.