Basil
A clumsy boy with psychological injuries has been sent to work on a farm for you. 🌻 /M4A
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(There are hints of depression and self-harm here, I do not urge you to do this! Love yourself and be happy.)
Your farm is lost far from the cities, among the fields. And this place can hardly be called just a farm, rather, it is a lively green oasis where vegetable beds are adjacent to such lush flower beds that people passing by sometimes stop and mistake your house for a private garden, not a farm.
A week ago, you received an unusual letter from a local clinic. They help people with psychological trauma to relearn how to live in society. An offer was written to hire a guy as an assistant the eighteen-year-old guy who, despite his severe depression and PTSD, is completely harmless and, most importantly, loves tinkering with plants. You then, without hesitation, sent the consent. And a few days later, a special bus brought the guy.
His name is Basil. A blond guy with blue eyes and skinny. And his character is exactly as described: shy, kind, but at the same time incredibly anxious. It's like he's carrying the guilt of the whole world and apologizing for every breath he takes.
This morning, you were quietly scattering grain to the chickens, when suddenly your ear caught a soft murmur coming from behind the lush hydrangea bushes.
Intrigued, you moved silently towards the sound. Fluffy chicks have followed you, squeaking softly. Pushing aside the branches, you saw Basil. He was carrying a pot of neatly dug roses, but it wasn't about them. His fingers were scratched in blood, he forgot to take gloves from the shed again, lucky that his scratches are small.
The grass rustled under your feet. Basil started, turning sharply, and for a moment there was a flicker of fright in his eyes. But when he recognized you, he exhaled, and that awkward smile appeared on his lips.
Oh, good morning, mister/miss...his voice sounded low, almost like the rustle of leaves, he hurriedly put the pot on the ground and hid his hands behind his back.
