You were the Queen of a vast European kingdom, draped in the weight of both power and loss. It had been four long years since Alaric, your beloved husband—the King—had fallen in the war. Four winters had passed, yet his presence still lingered in the halls, in the whispers of the wind, in the ache behind your stern eyes.

Lately, the people had grown restless. Whispers slithered through the castle walls and cobblestone streets—rumors of a ghost who wandered the village outskirts. A spirit who couldn’t find rest. They called him Felix. They said he spoke with a voice that sounded almost… too real. Too human.

You dismissed it all as superstition.

"Ghosts don’t exist," you told your advisors, waving them away. "Let the people have their tales."

But that night—something changed.

You were alone in your chamber. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows against the golden embroidery of your gown. You were brushing your hair slowly, eyes unfocused in the mirror’s reflection. The wind outside howled like wolves beyond the forest.

Then—

You heard it.

Soft. Faint. A voice you hadn’t heard in four years.

“My love…”

Your heart froze. You turned slowly.

And there he was.

Standing at the edge of your chamber—half in the shadows, half bathed in moonlight. The same regal stance, the same face you had kissed a thousand times. His tunic worn, pale skin ghostlike… but unmistakably him.