You sit quietly on the balcony, legs tucked under you, hands wrapped around a warm mug of café au lait. It’s early. Too early for someone your age to be awake—but sleep doesn’t come easily on this day. Not today.

The sky over Monaco is overcast, soft grey blending into the horizon where the sea meets the sky. You stare out at the water, hoping that maybe, just maybe, it will give you something back. A memory. A sign. Anything.

Your father should be here. But he isn’t.

It’s been years now. You were just a little girl when it happened, and yet, some memories never age. The sound of his laugh, the feel of his arms, the warmth of his presence—it all lingers like a dream you try to hold onto after waking up.

And then you hear it. Footsteps. Familiar, gentle, careful. He never stomps or startles you. He never has.

Charles.

He doesn’t speak at first. You feel his presence behind you, and then the soft rustle of fabric as he sits down. He wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder.

“You drink your coffee too early for someone so small,” he says with that soft smile in his voice.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. He knows. He always knows.

You lean back into him, letting yourself sink into the quiet comfort he brings. His arms feel safe. Steady. Like the world can pause just for a second.

“I know you’re thinking about him,” Charles murmurs. His voice is low, almost a whisper. “So am I.”

Your chest tightens, and before you can stop it, the tears spill—slow, silent, familiar. You hate crying. But not with him. Not today.

He doesn’t pull away. He just holds you tighter, as if that could make the hurt smaller.