I

The air in Buckingham Palace always felt heavy, thick with the weight of centuries-old tradition and the stifling expectations of a crown that Charles had not yet begun to wear, but which already crushed his spirit. For a week, he had been a ghost haunting his own life. He moved through the gilded corridors like a clockwork soldier, performing his duties with a precision that bordered on the uncanny. He attended meetings, signed documents, and shared stiff, polite meals with his family, all while his heart lay buried in a fresh grave in a quiet cemetery far from the prying eyes of the press.

Daphne was gone. The word itself felt like a jagged piece of glass in his throat.

He had played his part perfectly. Not a single tear had fallen in public. Not a tremor had shaken his voice when he spoke to the Prime Minister. The Queen had looked at him with a glimmer of approval, noting his newfound "maturity" and "steadiness." She didn't know that the steadiness was actually the numbness of a man who had already died inside.

When the sun dipped below the horizon and the palace retreated into the shadows of the night, the mask shattered.

Charles sat on the floor of his darkened bedroom, the ornate furniture looming over him like silent judges. An empty bottle of scotch sat by his knee, and his fingers, stained with ink and trembling with exhaustion, clutched a crumpled piece of parchment. It was the letter Amy had handed him at the funeral—Daphne’s final words.

“My dearest Charles,” the letter began, the elegant script now blurred by the spots where his tears had fallen days ago. “If you are reading this, it means I have finally found peace. Please, do not hate me for leaving you without a word. I couldn't let you watch me wither away. I wanted you to remember me as I was—full of life, dancing in the rain, loving you with every breath. I broke your heart to save your soul from the agony of my slow departure. Live for me, my Prince. Live for the both of us.”

"How can I live?" Charles whispered into the hollow silence of the room. "How can I live in a world where you don't exist?"

He took another long pull from the bottle, the alcohol burning his throat but failing to warm the icy void in his chest. The lack of sleep was finally taking its toll. For seven days, he had closed his eyes only to see the flickering images of hospital beds and twisted metal. But tonight, the silence began to hum.

“Charles…”

He froze. The voice was a soft breath against his ear, as light as a summer breeze.

"Daphne?" he gasped, his head spinning as he scrambled to his feet.

“Charles, come and find me. The stars are so beautiful tonight.”

He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. His feet, heavy and uncertain, carried him out of his room. He bypassed the main staircase, moving through the servant passages and up the narrow stone steps that led toward the upper reaches of the palace. The air grew colder, but he didn't feel it. He was chasing a melody, a memory, a phantom.

He pushed open the heavy door leading to the roof. The wind whipped his hair across his face, smelling of rain and distant city smog, but to Charles, it smelled of her perfume—white lilies and spring rain.

There, standing on the very edge of the stone parapet, was a figure. She wore a white dress that billowed in the wind like a sail, her golden hair glowing under the pale moonlight. She turned, and Charles felt his heart stop. It was her. Her eyes were bright, her skin glowing with health, and she was smiling that radiant, lopsided smile that had always been his sanctuary.

"Daphne," he breathed, a sob breaking through his chest. "You came back."

She reached out a hand, beckoning him. “It’s so quiet up here, Charles. No crowns, no duties. Just the sky. Come to me.”

Charles stepped forward, his shoes scraping against the lead roofing. He was oblivious to the sheer drop, oblivious to the lights of London sprawling out hundreds of feet below like a carpet of fallen stars. He only saw her. He wanted to touch her hand, to feel the warmth of her skin, to tell her that he didn't care about the throne or the family if he could just have one more minute in her presence.

He reached the edge. One more step and he would be with her. He leaned forward, his weight shifting toward the abyss, a blissful smile spreading across his face.

"Charles! No!"

The world suddenly lurched. A powerful force slammed into his midsection, throwing him backward. The vision of the girl in the white dress shattered like a mirror, dissolving into the cold night air. Charles hit the hard roof with a thud that knocked the wind out of his lungs, his head bouncing against the cold stone.

He gasped for air, his eyes wide and unfocused. Above him, the dark silhouette of a man was heaving, his hands gripping Charles’s shoulders with a strength born of pure terror.

"What in God's name were you doing?" a voice roared, cracked with emotion.

Charles blinked, the haze of alcohol and exhaustion slowly receding. The face looking down at him wasn't Daphne’s. It was his father’s. Prince Philip looked older than Charles had ever seen him. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a raw, unadulterated fear that the Duke of Edinburgh rarely showed to the world.

Philip shook him, his fingers digging into Charles’s coat. "Answer me! Have you lost your mind? You were an inch away from the edge! You almost fell!"

Charles lay there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looked past his father toward the empty air where the hallucination had stood. There was nothing there but the wind and the distant hum of traffic. The realization of where he was—and what he had almost done—hit him like a physical blow.

He had been chasing a ghost into the grave.

Philip let out a shaky breath, his grip loosening just slightly, though he didn't let go. He looked down at his son, searching Charles’s face for some sign of the boy he knew. He had come up here for a quiet smoke, a moment of reprieve from the Queen's endless red boxes, only to find his eldest son walking toward his death with a smile on his face.

"Charles," Philip said, his voice dropping to a low, urgent rasp. "Talk to me. What is this? Is it the girl? The one who passed?"

For a moment, the truth hovered on the tip of Charles’s tongue. He wanted to scream that his heart was broken, that he was drowning in a grief he wasn't allowed to show, that he was seeing visions because he couldn't bear the reality of his own life.

But then, the years of training took over. The royal armor, forged in the fires of Eton and the cold halls of the palace, snapped back into place. He couldn't be weak. He couldn't be the son who tried to jump. Not even to his father.

Charles forced a small, tired smile onto his lips. He let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears.

"Good heavens, Father," Charles said, his voice remarkably steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. "You gave me quite a fright."

Philip frowned, his eyes narrowing. "A fright? Charles, you were standing on the precipice. You were leaning over."

Charles sat up, brushing the dust from his sleeves with trembling hands. He didn't look at the edge. "I suppose I was. I’m terribly sorry. I think... I think I’ve just been working too hard. The investiture preparations, the tours... I must have been sleepwalking. Or perhaps the fresh air went to my head."

He stood up on shaking legs, leaning briefly against a chimney stack for support. He patted Philip’s shoulder, a gesture of affection that felt strangely out of place in their usually formal relationship.

"I’m just exhausted, Papa," Charles lied, his voice smooth and polite. "I didn't realize how close I was to the edge. I was looking at the lights of the Mall. It’s quite a view from up here, isn't it?"

Philip didn't move. He stood in the shadows, watching his son with a mixture of suspicion and deep, aching concern. He knew his son was a creature of duty, but he also knew that Charles was sensitive—far more sensitive than a future King was supposed to be. He had seen the way Charles had been acting all week, the way he had become a perfect, silent statue.

"You're sure that's all it was?" Philip asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Just... exhaustion?"

"Quite sure," Charles lied again, the words tasting like ash. "I'll go straight to bed. I think a long sleep is exactly what the doctor would order."

Charles turned and walked toward the door, his back straight, his head held high. He didn't look back at his father, and he didn't look back at the spot where the ghost of Daphne had stood.

As he descended the stairs, the darkness of the palace swallowed him whole. He reached his room and locked the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood. The letter was still on the floor. The scotch was still in the bottle.

He wasn't sleepwalking. He knew that. And he suspected, from the look in his father’s eyes, that Philip knew it too.

Charles walked to the window and looked out at the moon. He didn't see Daphne anymore. He only saw the cold, hard reality of the life he had to lead—a life where he had to be a king, even when he was nothing more than a broken-hearted boy who wanted to follow his love into the night.

He picked up the letter, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the pocket of his robe, right over his heart. He would keep his secret. He would play the part. But as he finally drifted into a fitful, dreamless sleep, he knew the roof would always be there, waiting for the night when the mask finally became too heavy to wear.