I didn't expect her to come.
The knock is gentle but insistent.
When I open the door, she stands there, carrying a small bouquet of wildflowers; bright, imperfect but alive. Amalia, my mother.
Her eyes are tired but soft.
She steps inside without asking.
No grand words. No platitudes.
She simply sits beside me in the sunlit room, the one where shadows no longer scare me.
We don't speak for a long time.
She reaches for my hand, trembling slightly.
"I lost my daughter too," she whispers.
The words fall like a stone into the quiet.
Her pain feels like an echo of mine, distant but real.
She pulls out a worn photograph from her bag, a picture of us, years ago. Smiling, whole.
"I was afraid I'd forget how you looked happy. So I kept this."
Her voice cracks. Mine follows.
"I don't want to forget," I say.
She nods, tears shining.
"We carry them inside us, Celeste. Not just the loss, but the love."
Her fingers brush my cheek, warm and steady.
"You don't have to carry it alone."
I lean into her touch, tasting the fragile hope she offers.
For the first time in weeks, I whisper,
"Thank you, Mother."
And the silence between us breathes new life.
***
Cassian waits by the door as the sun dips low.
He's no longer the distant king, but a man with quiet hands and patient eyes.
We walk slowly through the garden, the sky bruised with purple and gold.
He tells a joke about a royal chef who mistook salt for sugar.
I almost laugh. A raw, surprising sound that shakes the stillness inside me.
He smiles, the first real one I've seen in days.
Back in the kitchen, we cook together.
I chop vegetables. He fumbles with the stove.
We argue about the right way to make stew—he insists on too much spice.
I tease him for nearly burning the pot.
The laughter feels fragile but real.
Later, we sit by the fireplace, sharing stories not about loss, but about dreams we once had.
He talks about the books he loved as a boy. I speak of places I wanted to see.
The night grows deep, but the heaviness inside me lifts, just a little.
I realize this, this slow weaving of moments, the quiet companionship, is how I begin to live again.
For the first time in a long while, I smile.
Cassian and I talked late into the night and agreed; it was time to go home, back to the palace, to bid our final farewell to our daughter. It was time to let her return to heaven.
The clouds gather this morning, quiet and silver.
Not stormy. Just still.
Cassian stands beside me by the car, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. He doesn't speak, and I don't ask him to. Some silences feel sacred.
Esther folds the last of my things. My mother lingers near the doorway, eyes red but dry. She doesn't try to stop me. She just nods, like she understands what comes next — what must come next.
"They're waiting," Cassian says gently. "The whole kingdom."
My heart clenches. My daughter, no longer just mine, belongs to them too. A nation's loss. A child wrapped in prophecy and gold.
"She deserves to be sent off as she came," I whisper. "With honour."
He nods.
The drive back is long, but the roads are clear. People have lined the sides in quiet reverence. No cheers. No chants. Just bowed heads and hand-held candles.
At the palace gates, guards in white robes line both sides. The flags fly at half-mast. The roses are gone — replaced with lilies. Pure. Untouched.
Cassian offers me his arm as I step out.
I take it.
Inside, the throne room has been transformed. No gold. No banners. Just a soft, solemn hush. In the center lies a cradle — not empty, but full of white flowers, resting beneath a beam of morning light.
I feel my knees buckle, and Cassian steadies me.
"We will honor her, Celeste," he says quietly. "As she deserves. As our child."
A single tear falls, but I nod.
I walk forward, toward the cradle, toward the pain — ready to let her go… the right way.