Page 10 of Scars and Crowns

I forget how to inhale. The head maid mistakes my silence for unfamiliarity. "Go through the back corridor," she says briskly. "Take the second staircase. Third door after the library."

I nod obediently. As though I'm memorising directions. As though I haven't walked that exact route hundreds of times before.

I could find that study blindfolded. Every corridor. Every staircase. Every floorboard that creaks if you step on the wrong side. Every hidden passage we used to sneak through. My feet still remember them all.

And every single one of those memories . . . Leads back to one boy. I lift the tray carefully. The porcelain cup rattles faintly against its saucer. I tighten my grip until the sound disappears.

Keep your face blank.

Keep walking.

You're just another maid carrying coffee.

Not the girl who once knew exactly how he took it. Not the girl who sat in that very study while he spoke about dreams, fears, impossible responsibilities . . . Not the girl who trusted him with parts of herself she'd never given another soul.

I lower my eyes. Take my first step.

Then another.

And with every corridor that stretches ahead of me . . . The tray somehow grows heavier, though I know perfectly well it hasn't gained a single gram.

DAISY?

YUVAAN

The report in front of me is about textile export margins.

I've read the same paragraph four times.

I still can't tell what it says.

The words blur together until they're nothing more than black ink scattered across expensive paper. My reading glasses slide halfway down my nose again, and I push them back into place with the practiced motion of someone who's done it so often his hands no longer think about it.

Once upon a time, afternoons were spent racing horses across palace grounds and climbing walls I wasn't supposed to.

Now they disappear beneath balance sheets, board approvals, legal documents, and files thick enough to make my desk disappear beneath them.

This is what thirty looks like.

A study that's never truly empty but somehow always feels quiet.

Outside the tall windows, the winter sun has already begun its slow descent, spilling warm gold across the gardens. The light stretches through the room, painting long shadows over the carpet and the stacks of files waiting for my attention.

Somewhere in the palace, a heavy door slams shut.

I don't even look up anymore. After years inside these walls, every sound has become part of the rhythm of my day. A knock breaks through the silence. Two quick taps.

Must be my coffee. "Come in." My eyes remain on the report. I hear the handle turn. The hinges shift softly and the door opens.

Then . . . Nothing.

No footsteps. No familiar click of the door closing. No quiet movement toward the desk. Just silence. A strange, suspended kind of silence.

The sort that doesn't belong inside this palace.

Over the years, I've learned about this place the way some people learn music.

Every corridor has its own echo.