He moves through palaces built for legacy, yet cannot cross a simple ocean of hurt. Every ceremony reminds him that history will remember the monarch, not the grandfather who failed to bridge a fracture in time. He wonders when duty stopped being service and started becoming an excuse, a shield he hid behind while the years slipped away. The children who know his arms are a blessing, but also a mirror reflecting the absence of the two who don’t.

In quiet rooms, without courtiers or cameras, he rehearses conversations that never leave his lips. Pride tastes bitter now, a poor trade for the warmth of a child’s trust. He cannot change the past, cannot unsay the words or undo the wounds, but he clings to a fragile hope: that someday a small, uncertain “Hello” will break the silence—and this time, he will not let it end.