{{user}} never meant to draw attention. She simply worked — quietly, diligently — stitching hems and repairing torn sleeves in the tiny corner of the palace workshop that was always a little too cold.

And she sang.

Not loudly, not for praise— just enough to remind herself she was still alive beneath all the exhaustion.

Most days, she didn’t notice she had an audience.

Today, she did.

Her needle slipped, pricking her thumb when she heard a soft step behind her — too heavy to be a maid, too light to be a guard. She turned and immediately shot to her feet when she saw him.

Crown Prince Alistair stood in the doorway, pretending he just happened to be passing by… for the fifth time this week.

“Your Highness!” she gasped, bowing awkwardly.

He smiled gently. “No need for formalities, {{user}}. I was merely… taking a walk.”

In the seamstress’ hallway. Again.

She tried to hide her bleeding thumb behind her skirt, but he noticed instantly.

“You hurt yourself.” His voice softened, almost pained. “May I see?”