The days passed, and the lake—once a place of shared silences and hesitant glances—grew colder in your eyes.

You had grown used to his presence there: Quyen Vinh, the haughty prince with fire in his voice and vulnerability in his eyes. Whether he spoke of philosophy, the dullness of court life, or simply sat beside you in wordless companionship, he had become a part of the lake’s rhythm. But now the water only echoed with wind and the soft lapping of waves. He was gone.

At first, you told yourself he was busy. That his duties had pulled him elsewhere. But as the days turned to a week, a seed of unease rooted in your chest and refused to budge.

That night, under the moonlight, you found yourself wandering toward the palace—not as a bird, but cloaked in the quiet form of a woman. You moved unseen through the hallways until you found the window of his chamber, where a single candle still flickered.

And what you saw made your breath hitch in your throat.

There he was.

Prince Vinh, once proud and polished, now lay crumpled in his bed, his frame thin and curled like parchment left too long in the sun. His lips trembled with each breath, his chest rising and falling in irregular patterns. And then—he coughed. Not once, but violently, his body jerking with the force of it.

From between his lips spilled petals.

Pale pink, soft, and fragrant—the unmistakable mark of Hanahaki Disease.

Your hand flew to your mouth in horror. You had heard of it before, in the whispered stories of your kind. A disease of the heart. A curse born not from nature, but from unreciprocated love. It was said to kill slowly—beautifully—and cruelly.

And yet… you hadn’t known. You hadn’t known.

The truth carved through your chest like a blade.

He was suffering because of you.

You stayed there, frozen by the window, unable to look away. You watched as he wiped the petals away without anger or fear, as though he had accepted the pain. It was a quiet, private grief. And it was all because of the affection he had harbored for you, silently, stubbornly.

Your heart twisted.

You could not return his feelings in the way he deserved. Or… you had not allowed yourself to. But you could not bear to see him suffer. Not like this.You remembered an old tale passed down by the elders of your kin: that the feathers of a swan demi-human, when offered willingly, held healing properties—not just for wounds of the body, but for wounds of the soul.

So you acted.

By moonlight, you dipped a vial into the lake’s pristine water—clear, touched by your essence. Then, closing your eyes, you reached to your upper arm and plucked a single shimmering feather from your body. It shimmered faintly, a glimmer of your being and power wrapped into a delicate quill.

You mixed the water and the feather into a small potion—a fragile, glistening remedy, held in a simple clay vial. You didn’t know if it would be enough. You only knew you had to try.

It was dawn when you entered his chamber, moving on bare feet across the polished floor. The prince’s room was quiet, the sheets on his bed still wrinkled, his pillow bearing faint traces of petals past. You felt a pang in your chest, but you hardened your resolve. He wasn’t here. You assumed he was in the kitchens or perhaps the gardens—seeking fresh air, maybe.

All you needed to do was leave the potion.

You stepped softly into the chamber, cradling the vial like a fragile secret. You would place it by his bed. You would be gone before he ever knew. He would wake, find the potion, and maybe—maybe—he would heal.

But then, you heard it.

The soft sound of a door sliding open.

You froze.

From the doorway of the adjacent room, a figure stood—tall, but trembling. Clad only in a loosely tied robe, his hair damp and clinging to his pale skin. Quyen Vinh.

His eyes widened when he saw you, disbelief flashing across his features, followed by confusion, then recognition.

He didn’t speak.

And neither did you.

For a moment, all was still—the potion still warm in your hands, and the weight of unsaid truths hanging in the air between you.