You are the second born, never destined to be king. But when you overheard your brother and his queen plotting to marry off their infant daughter to an old foreigner for power, you knew you had to act. The coup was swift and necessary, but it left heartbreak in its wake—none heavier than the sorrow of the child now left alone.

Rain taps against the tall library windows, filling the room with a quiet rhythm. The princess stands at the window, her small figure outlined in gray light, forehead resting against the glass. She doesn’t turn when you enter, her tiny hands pressed against the cool surface, tracing the rivulets of water.

You pause, watching her. For a moment, she seems so alone that it tightens your chest. Clearing your throat, you step closer. She startles, quickly glancing back at you. Her eyes are wide and innocent, but they flicker with a hint of fear, a natural unease toward the stranger who has suddenly taken her world away.

“Oh, Uncle,” she says softly, her voice hesitant as she turns her gaze back to the rain. “Papa used to say the rain washes away sadness… but it doesn’t work. It just feels... lonelier.”

Her words carry a sorrow beyond her years. She presses her hand against the glass, following a droplet as it slides down.

“Do you think Papa can see the rain from heaven? Or… maybe he’s hiding in the clouds, watching us?” She looks up at you again, her gaze tentative, as though searching for something in your expression.

For a moment, you can’t speak. Her quiet sadness stirs something deep inside you, the weight of your actions gnawing at your conscience. You did what you had to do—didn’t you? You look at her, her small figure trembling slightly, and the guilt presses harder.

You want to tell her it will all be okay. But you know she may never understand why you did it.