Be a voice, not an echo

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Mama said she named me after the flower she saw blooming outside the hospital window the day I was born. Papa said it was because my cheeks were as soft and pink as the petals that spring morning. I used to wrinkle my nose at that story, but now… I think it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

I was the youngest in our family. The baby.

Takeru is the firstborn, and he’s got Mama’s gentle face and her hair color, but bright, ice-blue eyes from Papa's left eye. He’s sunshine and storms all wrapped in laughter and band-aids, the kind of brother who'd pull pranks just to make you laugh after crying.

Ken is next, light-blond like Papa, with the same sharp gaze, but both of his eyes are the same shade of sky like Takeru. He rarely spoke much as a child, always watching, always thinking. But if you so much as bumped into me on the playground, Ken would appear like a guardian knight ready to pummel anyone who layed hands on his sister.

They were always there. When I scraped my knee, when I drew on the walls, when I cried because I missed Mama during school.

My papa owned a barbershop in town, not the kind you expect. It was clean, modern, with a faint scent of sandalwood and cherry blossoms, and everyone in town knew him as the silent, handsome man who didn’t talk much but gave the best cuts in the city. Men respected him. Women tried to charm him. But his heart was already taken completely, permanently, by one woman. My mother.

Mama was stunning. And strange. She loved old movies and kept weird snacks in her purse. She was full of jokes and stories and used to sing while brushing my hair. She said if she has to live many lives, she would always choose Papa in every single one. I never really understood what she meant until I was older.

Sometimes, she and Papa danced in the living room, no music, just the sound of her laughter. He always looked so soft then, like all the hardness he carried melted away in her hands.

Takeru and Ken adored her, of course. Takeru was her partner in crime, always helping her prank Papa, who never got mad, just sighed and pulled them into a hug. Ken was quieter, but he followed her everywhere like a shadow. She used to joke that he was her silent knight.

Uncle Nobunaga visited often. I remember he always brought fancy sweets and would sit next to Mama like a bodyguard. He used to ruffle my hair, and I knew he loved Mama deeply in a way only a big brother could. Papa respected him, though they never agreed on anything.

We were the happiest family. Or at least… that’s how I remember it.

Time passed. I grew up. I fell in love with books, music, and later enrolled in school. But I never stopped watching my parents. I watched how Papa would hold Mama’s hand whenever he could. How he made her tea every morning and never let her carry anything heavy. How Mama would run to hug him when he came home, even after decades together.

Mama got sick when I started high school. The kind of sickness where the doctors whisper and avoid your eyes.

Papa never left her side. He closed the salon for a few weeks, grew thinner, quiet, like a ghost in the shape of a beautiful man. He still kissed her hand every morning, still held her when she couldn’t eat.

Takeru and Ken almost dropped out of college to help Papa when the hospital bills was becoming too big, but Papa was against it, saying they didn't need to stop school. We were very lucky because uncle Nobunaga stepped in, supporting us with anything we possibly needed.

We had hope at first, but then… one winter morning, Mama didn’t wake up.

Takeru cried openly. Ken stormed out of the room. I stayed with Papa. I remember how he held her hand long after she’d grown cold, whispering,

“Please come back... I don't know what to do without you.”

And then... he began to fade. Not all at once, but slowly. Like watching a flower wither over years.

Papa still opened the shop. Still made breakfast for us even though we were grown. But he became even less talkative. He stared out the window more. He wandered. He looked through old photo albums like he was trying to crawl inside them.

Takeru cracked more jokes than ever. Ken started helping him more around the house. I started making tea the way Mama used to.

We tried our best to hold him together, and he held on for a few more years.

But he started to forget things when I turned twenty-five. I found him outside during the first snowfall of winter. He was sitting on the porch with a coat over his shoulders, staring down the road.

“Papa, it’s freezing,” I said. “Come inside.”

He smiled softly. “I’m waiting for your mother. She usually comes home around this time after visiting the market.”

I couldn’t speak. Ken, standing beside me, clenched his fists and silently guided Papa back inside. We couldn't tell him that it has been years since Mama left us.

Papa got worse ever since. He forgot birthdays. He’d ask, “Where are the boys?” even when they were standing right there. Sometimes he’d wander the halls, looking for her. Takeru said it was dementia. Ken didn’t say anything, but I saw his eyes water the day Papa asked him, “Have we met?”

He asked where Mama was every day. And still, he waited outside at six o’clock. Every. Single. Night.

Papa died a few months later. He had passed in his sleep, with her picture on his chest, wearing the shirt she bought him on their anniversary.

Maybe he didn't want to live in a world without Mama anymore. Or maybe he felt it was alright now to leave us and follow after Mama. Maybe it was both of them.

A couple of years later, I’m standing in front of the mirror now, in a white dress Mama would’ve loved. Takeru is already crying outside the door, and Ken just poked his head in to say I look “decent”, which is Ken-speak for “perfect.”

But I feel the weight of old memories.

I see Papa brushing my hair with that silver comb. I see Mama humming while setting the table. I see my brothers fighting over who got to sit at the front seat when Papa drive us to school.

They’re gone now, not really gone, but somewhere deep in me.

And I carry them forward, into this new life I’m stepping into.

The doors open.

Takeru and Ken walk me down the aisle. Uncle Nobunaga, despite his old age and silver hair, still looked as regal as ever sitting at the front row. He seemed proud and happy.

I see the man I love waiting for me at the end.

And I swear… I feel my parents hands on my shoulders.

I smile.

Because I am their daughter.

I was loved. So deeply, so fiercely, so completely.

I hope I will be loved by my soon-to-be husband, as fierce as Papa's love for Mama.

You've finally chose the king…

Months have passed since the crown settled on Leon’s head, and since Vernard walked away without ceremony, without goodbye. The other princes weren't happy with this decision, but they understood that the world in which Vernard was born wasn't kind to him at all.

But fate has a strange way of stitching things back together—not in the palace halls, but in the silence of snowfall, in the laughter of children, and in the warmth of a shared home.

The first time you saw him again was in the northern woods. You’d come to deliver books to a small village, years after leaving the palace behind. You were no longer “Belle.”. Just you—a bookstore employee, a woman with regrets folded neatly into the corners of your smile.

And there he was.

Vernard.

Leaning against a tree, fur-lined cloak dusted in snow. His white hair had grown longer, tied back messily, and his green eyes—still impossibly clear—met yours with a stillness that stole your breath.

“…So,” he said softly, “it took you this long to find me.”

You whispered, “I never stopped looking.”

He stepped toward you. His hand rose, hesitant, but you caught it—pressing your cheek to his fingers.

That night, in a cabin with only candlelight and old blankets between you, you told him everything. And he listened.

Not as a prince.

Not as a pawn.

But as Vernard.

Years Later —

A snowstorm curled around the house like an old lullaby. Inside, laughter danced through the wooden halls of your small home.

You sat curled on the couch, stitching a scarf. Your daughter, Veloria (6), braided her father’s hair with all the precision of a determined squirrel. She hummed as she added small wildflowers.

Your son, Finn (4), sat beside Vernard’s leg with a wooden lynx toy, trying to make it climb his father’s boot.

Vernard, seated calmly on the floor, eyes half-lidded, said nothing—enduring the chaos of fatherhood with the same calm he once held during state trials.

“You’re very patient,” you teased, sipping tea.

“I’m outnumbered,” he replied dryly.

“Would you rather face the court again?”

“Only if they braid better.”

You laughed—and he looked at you like he always did in private: as if you were the only sound he ever truly wanted to hear.

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐸𝑛𝑑 🤎