It was chilly in the Winter Hollow basement.

Gerrit just finished planting some regular flowers - not because he wanted them to turn into Goblin Fruits or experiment, but because recently he has made a conscious effort to surround himself with plants and flowers. He wanted to remind himself of the good things in his life, wanted to move forward from all the pain and sorrow. Frankly, he has made a lot of progress over the last months. Where Vivian's sudden departure left anger, doubt, and a whole lot of hurting the Stonebones nowadays felt only a numb throbbing. Yes, his emotions were a lot more volatile since returning from Arcadia, but in hindsight what really hurt him about the Elemental-situation was the reassurance that lasting happiness and love was probably not in the cards for him.

And maybe that was all right. He could learn to be content in other ways.

The Ogre's breath came out in small puffs of mist as he carried over two big watering cans to splash the freshly set plants with clear, icy water. A short fuse wasn't the only thing he had brought back from there: the constant aches, stabs of pain, and jolts of discomfort every move or touch sent through his beaten flesh was also something he learned to bear, even though he never got used to it enough to fully ignore it. At least he felt like working here or in his shop somehow numbed everything down to a faint burning sensation, the kind of burning one felt when spending too much time outside in freezing temperatures.

He associated that with his flowers though, so that was all right too.

Maybe the others thought he had been growing bitter, cynical or cold. His conversation with Cassandra and Colonel Worm had shown him that that wasn't really the case. There were still some things to care for, some things worth protecting and working for. He didn't need to be exuberantly happy, didn't need to be the center of attention or find his soulmate. He could simply be a reliable friend, someone to take a bullet for the ones he cared for.
He could even start looking out for himself without the fear of being selfish and on the verge of becoming a terrible person. Yes, it would take a great deal of vigilance and those were baby steps he was talking about - but maybe there was a place for Gerrit between 'happy' and 'miserable', between 'pushover' and 'arsehole'.

Winter's numbness, he realized time and time again, wasn't a strictly bad thing.