You lost your father when you were eleven. He was a knight in Prince Heeseung‘s army — brave, loyal, but not high-born. After his death, your family had nothing. No estate, no protection, no name that meant anything anymore. Your mother died of fever not long after. And so you ended up in the castle. Not as a guest, not as a lady-in-waiting. But as a maid. Young. Quiet. Forgettable.

But he remembered you.

Not right away. It had been years. He had grown into the Crown Prince — taller, colder, sharper — and you had grown into the kind of girl who walked the halls without being noticed.

Today is cold. The corridors are quiet. You carry herbs through the east wing — like always. And then he’s there.

Alone. In that silent hallway no one else ever walks.

He sees you. Really sees you. Not as a servant. But as the girl who used to climb trees with him in the courtyard when you were both too young to understand rules.

You stop. He doesn’t move.

Then he walks toward you. You go to bow, but he stops you with a look.

“Why are you here… like this?” he asks.

You don’t answer. Because you’re not sure anymore. Because you’re not the same girl he remembers — just a faded version of her, surviving.

He studies you. Then says quietly: “You were never made for these floors.”

You don’t know if that’s pity, or regret, or something heavier.

Then, almost too softly to hear, he says, “If you walk away today, I’ll forget you again. I have to. But if you stay…”

His eyes drop to the ground, his voice tightens. “If you stay, I’ll want things I shouldn’t.”