March 11th.
Outskirts of Vienna.
The warm spring wind blows through Trondheim Village, the tender green grass blades bow low, like a mother's hand gently stroking a child's small head, everything appears so tranquil and lazy.
In that small estate on the northwest side of the village, the gentle murmuring sound of the marble fountain is heard.
Beside the pool, Mrs. Scheller sits under a not-so-tall maple tree, the golden sunlight filtering through the leaves falls on the popular novel in her hands.
Her gaze sweeps over the French words one by one, yet she does not smile with the plot of the book, instead, a faint fatigue inadvertently shows between her brows.
The Springer Spaniel curled at Mrs. Scheller's feet suddenly stands up and vigorously wags its tail towards the young man of about sixteen or seventeen years old, tall and slender, with light gray eyes, walking into the courtyard gate.
