I was, as always, sitting on my favorite stone bench in the garden, surrounded by a small but loyal gathering of staff, friends, and anyone who had heard about my storytelling sessions. The garden was where I truly felt alive, where my words could roam freely.
Today's tale was one of great adventure—a story of a clever thief outwitting a succession of royal guards. I could feel the crowd's tension, their eyes wide with awe as I spun the story, living each moment as if I were there.
And then, there was the one person who seemed more besotted than the others. A boy about my age, though of no noble birth. His name was Elias, the son of a gardener. At first, I had only noticed him lurking on the edges of the group, staring at me with an intensity I had never felt from anyone in the palace.
His eyes would sparkle with interest as I described the thief's desperate run through the castle halls, and his lips would curve into a soft smile whenever I added the clever little flourishes—the ones only someone with keen wit and a hidden agenda could appreciate.
When the story ended, Elias still stood there, rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on me with admiration. He wasn't like the others, who nodded or clapped. No, he was engrossed, looking at me as if I were a painting.
The next day, he was there again, standing in the background, listening intently as his pencil darted quickly across the paper. I didn't protest—curiosity kept me from interrupting him. What was he doing? But before long, I understood. He was sketching me—sketching the very scenes I had created with my words.
At first, I thought he was just a talented artist. But then, I saw something peculiar. Each sketch depicted the moments in my stories. The thief stealing at night, the moonlight shining on his face as he turned a corner… I recognized each moment as if they were plucked straight from my imagination, brought to life in his drawings.
Weeks went by, and Elias returned each time. With each visit, his sketches grew more intricate, more colorful. He even began sketching the scenes I hadn't reached yet, as though he knew where my story was going.
On the third week, after I finished telling a story about a daring rescue from a castle dungeon, Elias approached me shyly. His cheeks were pink, and his hands were tightly gripping a bundle of papers, the edges crumpling from his nervous grip.
"Princess Charlotte," he said softly, speaking barely above a whisper.
I arched an eyebrow, surprised but amused by his bashfulness. "Yes?"
He hesitated, then took a step forward, pushing out the drawings. "I—these are for you. For… the stories you tell. I hoped they might…" His voice caught, and he took a breath, summoning the courage to continue. "I hoped they would make you happy."
I stared at the bundle of sketches, then at Elias. His face was flushed, and his eyes were wide, waiting for me to say something.
"Thank you," I said, my voice soft but sincere. I took the sketches, turning the pages carefully. Each one was beautiful in its own right—a charming, detailed representation of the scenes I had outlined. The thief vaulting over a wall, the pursuit under moonlight through a forest, the tense moments just before a daring escape.
I looked up at Elias, who was already turning away from me, cheeks still flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. He had nearly melted into the shadows when I stopped him.
"Wait, Elias," I commanded.
He froze in place, eyes wide. "Yes, Princess?"
"Don't run away," I said, offering him a reassuring smile. "These are wonderful. You've brought my stories to life in a way I couldn't have imagined. You must show me more next time, yes?"
Elias nodded nervously, barely glancing at me before running off as fast as his legs could carry him, his footsteps echoing through the courtyard.
I turned the pages of his sketches once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. Elias had turned my stories into something tangible, something real. And in that moment, something unexpected stirred within me. The thrill of my stories was no longer confined to just words. It had grown, fueled by the admiration of a boy who had listened intently and found a way to express it in a manner that spoke volumes.
As I walked back to the palace with Whiskers trailing in my wake, I couldn't help but consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, this boy was more than just a simple admirer.