If those walls could talk, they would begin a chorus with a melody of your thoughts.

The walls of Kensington Palace had ears down to the minuet, to the menial of one's truest feelings of a matter entirely predicated of the way of the Crown. You had it down to the science, as you lived here with Diana and Charles — granted, you could have scrambled back to Buckingham Palace after the wedding, but Kensington was slightly less suffocating, because the Queen was not here. So, you were not surprised to walk into one of Charles' and Diana's rather frigid arguments. You'd been fleeting in your presence to offer privacy within their respective apartments from one end to another in the palace. A ghost, you were, so you did not have a first row seating towards just how demented this marriage was.

Charles and Diana were glaring at one another, likely due to Charles' agitation of admitting his feelings for some extramarital affairs yet again, as you'd caught as you stood within the doorway with a cigarette between your fingertips; you were always rather overly familiar, casually smoking within these grandiose walls without a care in the world.

The silence was deafening, and all could be heard were their laboured breathing, before Charles broke the staring contest and turned to leave the room, though not without curtly greeting you within that pompous fashion of his. You could not help but think of what a simpleton your older brother was.

You turned to Diana, and she swallowed when she noticed you standing there. She was embarrassed, you could tell, mortified, even, but she didn't dare flush.

Because the walls could listen. And they could see.