The knock at your door was soft.
The servants always were, especially in the morning.
"Your Majesty," a timid voice called from the threshold. "The King has gone ahead to the breakfast hall. Shall we prepare you—?"
"No."
You interrupted gently, before the girl could finish.
Your voice wasn't cold. Just… tired.
"Tell them I'm not feeling well this morning."
A pause. Then the sound of quiet footsteps retreating, no further questions asked.
You sat in silence, staring at the shawl left crumpled in the corner — the faint shape of your shoulders still imprinted in its folds. He hadn't come back last night.
You hadn't expected him to.
But it still stung.
Worse — it bruised something beneath your pride.
You dressed simply: a pale linen gown, unadorned but graceful, chosen not to impress but to disappear. Then you asked for Mira.
"I'd like to take a walk."
"The garden, Your Majesty?"
"No," you replied. "The marketplace."
Mira blinked. "The city market?"
"Yes."
You left the palace through the lesser gate. No fanfare. No guards. No titles trailing behind you like shackles. Just you — and Mira, a few steps behind, head bowed in understanding.
The city had begun to stir.
Rain had kissed the stones overnight, leaving the cobblestones slick and shining. Morning light stretched slow and gold across rooftops, casting long reflections in shallow puddles.
The world outside smelled of wet stone and living things. And for the first time in days, you felt your lips curve into something resembling a smile.
The warmth of fresh bread reached you first — golden, thick, impossibly soft. Then came the sharp bite of garlic, the tang of vinegar-soaked greens, the hiss of oil in cast iron. And then… coffee.
Bitter. Strong. The kind that could knock out a horse.
You let your steps slow. Let the scent and sound of the street fold over you like warmth in a bath. Here, at least, the world did not expect you to be perfect.
"It's not like home," you murmured — to Mira, or no one at all.
Still… you smiled.
You missed your old market. It was smaller, yes — rougher, warmer, familiar. You knew every cobbler and child and candle vendor. The bread wasn't better, but the hands that made it were ones you'd held.
Here, you were still Queen.
But just for a breath, you were also just a woman again.
A plum vendor nearby paused as you passed, eyes flicking to the hem of your robe. He didn't recognize you — not entirely — but something about your bearing made him bow slightly. Just in case.
You returned the gesture with a nod, the corners of your lips lifting.
It felt good.
To be acknowledged, but not examined.
Seen, but not picked apart.
Mira handed you a small coin pouch. You bought a honey bread — still warm, sticky at the edges, soft on your tongue.
You stood in the middle of the square, chewing slowly, watching a dog nose its way under a food cart, a child tug at his mother's sleeve.
Not a queen.
Not a wife.
Just a woman. Breathing.
You'd nearly forgotten how that felt.
Mira was commenting on the figs at a nearby stall when the sharp sound of hurried footsteps slapped against the stone behind you.
You turned.
One of the younger handmaids came skidding to a stop, cheeks flushed, breath shallow. She bowed quickly.
"Your Majesty — forgive me — the King is… looking for you."
Your hand paused at the drawstring of your coin pouch.
"Is that so?"
"He returned to your chambers and found them empty. He's already spoken to the guards — asked if you'd left the palace—"
Mira cast her a sharp look that hushed her.
You remained calm. Still. "Did he ask why?"
The girl hesitated. "He didn't say. Only that you were to be found. And brought back at once."
At once.
You turned your head slightly, watching a baker's boy smear flour across his cheek with the back of his hand. An old woman wrangled a goat. Children laughed — chasing pigeons into flight.
It was a life untouched by ceremony.
And for the first time in weeks, you felt as if you belonged.
You looked back at the girl.
"Tell him I'm safe. Tell him I went for air."
"He… he asked for your presence urgently, Your Majesty."
You lifted a brow — not unkindly.
"Did he?"
Your voice remained soft. Too soft to argue with.
The girl faltered. "I— I didn't mean—"
"You did nothing wrong," you said gently. "But let him wait."
She swallowed hard, nodded. "Yes, my lady." And disappeared the way she came.
Mira moved beside you. "Shall we return?"
You looked at the honey bread still in your hand.
"No," you said. "Not yet."
You weren't ready to face him. Not yet.
Not after the way he looked at you — like guilt and duty had finally learned how to bleed.
You hadn't known what to do with that. You still didn't.
After a moment, you handed Mira the last of the bread and reached for the coat she wore.
"Give me that."
"My lady?"
"He'll send guards," you said simply. "And I've worn this dress before at court. If they're looking, they'll be looking for a queen."
Mira hesitated only briefly before slipping the coat off her shoulders. You wrapped it around your own — travel-worn, practical, unremarkable. It draped over you like any common cloak, the sleeves a little too long.
You tucked your hair into the hood and turned into the narrow alley where the chambermaids fetched fruit or gossip from the inner courtyard.
No one looked twice.
You passed beneath low archways slick with moss and shadow. Ducking, you made your way toward the palace garden — quiet, enclosed, still glistening with dew.
A small pavilion awaited near the koi pond.
There, under its carved eaves, you sat. Let yourself be still. For a few minutes, you were invisible again — not hiding, not pretending, simply unseen.
Mira returned with a servant's tray. Bread, fruit, a steaming pot of jasmine tea.
You ate without ceremony, tearing bits of pastry and letting the warmth settle into your hands. The koi swam slowly in lazy spirals. A bird preened nearby.
But you didn't stay long.
He would check here next.
You wiped your fingers and stood.
"To the temple," you said.
Mira blinked. "Your Majesty?"
"I made a promise," you said softly. "To his mother."
The temple was quiet — dim and warm with incense, its stone floor cool beneath your steps. A priestess lit a candle in your name.
You left a silver coin and a string of prayer beads at the altar. Not for blessings. Not for fertility.
Just… clarity.
You sat at the base of a column, letting light filter over your clasped hands.
You weren't hiding.
But still, somewhere between the koi pond and the temple incense, you let the silence stretch longer than it needed to.
And when you thought of him — pacing, searching, issuing commands —
You smiled. Just barely.
Let him chase.
For once, the absence was yours to give.