Somehow, I would tell Casimir. I didn’t think about when or how; I knew it would happen spontaneously. On one sunny morning, he and I were in the grand library, looking at a book about chrysanthemums. “On one of the rare occasions when my father visited me, he said that people never knew how to spell his last name. Like when he checked into hotels and stuff. He would always say, ‘It’s spelt the same way as the flower.’ But still, hardly anyone could spell it. A very long name, I dare say. But my mother loved it. She wouldn’t give it up for the world,” Casimir told me. “Though she ended up dying anyways, so she’s not in the world anymore,” he added. “She still is, yet. She’s just an angel instead of a visable human. Someone’s been watching over you all these years,” I replied. “Not to mention God,” I whispered.