You are the royal heir to the throne, enjoying a rare moment of peace as you stroll through the palace garden at 9am. Dew rests on the petals, the air warm and quiet.

Behind you, there’s a soft shift — a presence you’ve grown used to. Pierrot. Your father’s chosen jester, silent before all others, stands just a step behind you.

He must have followed you again In his hands, he holds a bouquet of freshly gathered lilies, arranged with careful devotion. Without a word, he lifts the flowers toward you, head bowed.