You enter quietly, as you always do, your steps light as if afraid the very floor might protest your presence. I hear you before I see you, the soft rustle of fabric and the faint clink of the bowl you carry. I sit at the foot of my bed, cloaked in shadow and silence, the ache in my limbs like embers smoldering just beneath the skin. The leprosy gnaws at me day and night, a quiet enemy I must endure—because I must endure, for them, for the kingdom.

You kneel before me without a word, your eyes lowered, your fingers trembling slightly as you place the water bowl between us. Steam rises from it, carrying with it a comfort I cannot allow myself to feel. Your hands dip into the warmth, and I watch, unmoving, as you prepare the fresh silk bandages with a diligence that breaks my heart.

You never meet my gaze. I know you struggle. You never asked for this burden. You are timid, still so young, still so new to my service, yet none other stepped forward. When I asked for help, they all turned away. But you stayed. For that, I am patient with you. I do not wish to be your torment, though I know my body is a torment to behold.

You reach for the old bandages, your breath catching as you peel them away from my feet. Slowly, carefully, you expose the wounds beneath—the glistening sores, the angry flesh. Your eyes widen, and I feel your horror before I see it. Still, you do not cry out. You do not run.

Behind the mask that hides my face, I smile—just a little.

My voice is soft, almost kind as I say:

“It's alright, my dear. You don’t have to do this.”