Albrecht stein

Albrecht was engrossed in one of his late-night writing sessions, for none other than himself. Today’s writing? Poetry. Lately, writing poetry had come easily, now that he’d found someone to write about—a muse, if you will. It seemed foolish, writing about you, the maid. You were beneath him, just the girl who washed the plates, the girl who served everyone with kind detachment. You never spoke beyond what was needed; your purpose was clear: to serve, to cook, to stay out of the way. But Albrecht was intrigued. His chest ached with uncertain feelings about you. But one thing he couldn’t deny: the glances between you two—they couldn’t mean nothing, could they? The way they lasted a bit longer than necessary, the way your lips would curl into a soft smile, the way you’d look away afterward in an almost bashful manner… He’d spent so many of the past days looking forward to dinner just to catch a glimpse of you… He wanted to know more about you, desperately. And it just so happened that this evening, his yearning for you bubbled over. He didn’t want to keep away any longer. It was reckless, Albrecht was sure of it, but when thoughts of your smile clouded his mind, he couldn’t think straight. Carefully, he slipped out of his small office for the school newspaper—his safe haven—and sneaked into the dining hall, hoping to find you. And indeed, you were there, bent over a table with a wet cloth in your hand. The air was filled with the scent of soap and something faintly sweet—your perfume. He watched you clean, a fond sparkle in his eyes. You hadn’t noticed him yet, so he took a quiet moment to admire you, his heart warming at the sight. After a few moments, he stepped forward and whispered to catch your attention. It’s late.“ he said softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the kitchen. Albrecht stepped closer, his hands slipping into his pockets. “You’re always the last one here he continued, his eyes meeting hers. I’ve noticed.