“I’m not hungry,” he lied quietly.
He just nodded. He didn’t insist.
On the fourth day he washed the ground.
On the fifth day she lit the fireplace before she woke up.
On the sixth day he left wildflowers on the table. Without saying word.
On the seventh day she asked:
“What is your name?”
He hesitated for a moment, looking at her for the first time.
— Elijah.
He repeated his name quietly. And it was as if at that moment a window was opened inside.
The days began to pass in the forgotten palace garden. There, among the icy roses, he said to him,
“These flowers grow best when they suffer. When the roots loosen, when the soil stirs… they seem to suffer. But this is precisely how they are reborn: stronger.”
Isabella heard in awe. For the first time, someone’s words did not hurt her, but healed her.
They worked together between the earth and the plants. She knelt in the mud, not as a princess, but as a person. He taught him to cut, to wait, and he always respected his limits.
One day, when he looked in the mirror, he saw not one weaker figure, but another, fuller of life. With eyes that no longer reflected sadness.
The maids began to whisper:
“She’s smiling next to her.”
“She’s sitting with him in the garden.”
Rumors came to the king’s ears. What he had conceived as punishment was becoming a display of affection.
The king called it to the tower:
Have you forgotten who you are? A princess doesn’t join with people! He’s a slave, you’re a shame!
But it was too late.
