In the dim glow of candlelight, a heavy silence lingered in the royal chamber. The room was lavish, a remnant of mid-European grandeur, with high ceilings and rich tapestries hanging from every corner. Gilded frames adorned the walls, each painting a relic of long-forgotten rulers. The bed, draped in deep crimson and gold, seemed to belong to a queen—yet the woman who sat upon it, clutching a stack of drawings, appeared more like a prisoner of her own sorrow.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the edges of the paper, her gaze never wavering from the childish sketches. The lines were crude but filled with emotion, telling stories that only the artist could truly understand. Her face, pale and gaunt, was drawn tight with a mixture of love and loss, as though every part of her soul had been poured into the ink.
