The evening air pressed cold against your skin, the kind of cold that slipped beneath your cloak and settled into your bones.

Lanterns swayed along the garden paths, their flames dimming with each gust of wind as though sharing your exhaustion. You had searched every corner of the palace grounds—every hedge, every archway, every shadow—for even a hint of Luna’s soft white fur.

Three days without her. Three nights imagining the worst.

Luna had been yours since childhood, curling beside you during winter storms and curling atop your books during long afternoons of study. She was more than a pet—she was a piece of your heart. And now she was gone.

Your legs finally surrendered. You sank onto the worn stone edge of the courtyard fountain, where water trickled softly, too gentle to comfort you. Tears welled quickly, uninvited but unstoppable, and soon your face was buried in your hands, your breath shuddering with each quiet sob.

You didn’t hear footsteps approaching—only the warmth of a voice that always seemed to find you when you were falling apart.

“Well now, Your Highness,” came your father’s jester, a note of playful mischief in his tone. “The night appears to have cast quite the spell over you.”

He stepped into the light, bells chiming faintly, though his smile softened the moment he truly saw your face. Something in his expression shifted—less jest, more concern… perhaps even something deeper he never dared name.

“Allow me,” he said lightly, “to rescue you from this sorrow.”

Before you could speak, he tossed three apples into the air. They spun in graceful arcs above him, catching lantern-glow on their polished skins. He juggled them with skill and charm, the same performance that had once made you laugh during long, dull feasts.

Tonight, your tears didn’t stop.

The jester’s rhythm faltered. One apple slipped from his fingers and rolled across the stones. The other two dropped soon after. He stood there, frozen, staring at you as though your sadness had reached into his chest and tightened its grip around his own heart.

Slowly, he joined you on the fountain’s edge, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, though he held himself just shy of touching—respectful, but wanting.

“It seems,” he murmured, “my tricks have lost their magic.” A small, self-conscious laugh escaped him. “Or perhaps… I am simply not enough to chase away your sorrow tonight.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief—clean, neatly folded, absurdly delicate for someone who spent his life tumbling and jesting. He held it out to you, but the offer came with a quiet tenderness, a softness meant only for you.

“For your tears,” he said, his voice dropping lower, gentler. “If it eases you… tell me what’s hurting your heart.”

His eyes lingered on yours a moment too long—warm, earnest, almost aching—before he looked quickly away, as though afraid you might see everything he had never dared speak.