It was the kind of day that only Midori-Iro could paint: skies brushed with morning gold, trade winds stirring gently through the blossoming gardens, and the sound of laughter rising like songbirds through the Capitol Commons of Luluhani City.
Today was a cherished celebration—one held only once every few years in Midori-Iro—the National Kindergarten Graduation Ceremony. It was the grand culmination of a program that unified the early childhood education systems across the islands of Hikari Kōzō, Mana Nui, and Moanaola. Children from all cultures, walks of life, and corners of the nation gathered with wide-eyed excitement, dressed in tiny capes of bright island fabrics, each patterned uniquely to represent their heritage.
Though it was a national celebration, a subtle hum of disappointment lingered in the air. Many had hoped Queen Adriana herself would attend, as she had long been known to champion children’s education. But word had come from the Royal Office that her schedule was “entirely booked with pressing state matters.” The young graduates wouldn’t see her today.
What no one knew—not even the Secretary of Education—was that Queen Adriana was already there.
Dressed in a wide sunhat, simple green-and-gold shawl, and loose linen trousers, Adriana blended seamlessly into the crowd of teachers and parents. She had left her security detail hidden on the outskirts and entered through the east garden, her twin siblings Ancil and Alexandria seated conspicuously on stage as guests of honor to draw attention away from her.
She smiled softly from beneath the brim of her hat, watching as tiny feet wobbled down the steps, as toddlers clutched their diplomas upside-down, and as proud teachers wiped tears behind sunglasses.
It was pure magic.
The Secretary of Education, a wise and warm-hearted woman named Malia Koa, approached the stage with a wide smile and a large woven basket in hand. She cleared her throat and addressed the crowd.
“Today,” she began, “we celebrate more than just the end of finger painting, show-and-tell, and learning the alphabet. We celebrate the spirit of Midori-Iro. In each of these children is the fire of Mana Nui, the light of Hikari Kōzō, and the heart of Moanaola.”
She gestured to three large carts now wheeled onto the stage, each stacked with beautifully wrapped baskets—each basket a gift from a different island.
“On behalf of Her Majesty Queen Adriana, who sends her deepest love and warmest congratulations,” Malia continued, “we present to each of our little graduates this ‘Basket of Beginnings.’ Inside, you’ll find mango-ginger cookies from the Moanaola coasts, a tiny handmade lantern from the artists of Hikari Kōzō, and a carved koa-wood charm from the warriors of Mana Nui—each representing light, strength, and joy.”
The children squealed in delight, opening the baskets at once, their fingers rifling through the little treasures with gasps and giggles.
Ancil and Alexandria took the stage soon after, grinning from ear to ear. The twins had long been known as the unofficial “younger royals of playtime.” Whether it was painting walls in a nursery, racing tricycles, or helping at story circles, they were adored by the nation’s little ones.
“We’re so proud of you,” Alexandria said, kneeling to eye level with a bashful child who offered her a cookie in thanks. “You’ve all grown so much—and the best adventures are just beginning!”
Ancil leaned into the mic, dramatically whispering, “And don’t tell anyone, but I totally failed finger painting on my first try.” The crowd erupted in laughter.
From her hidden spot in the shade of a banyan tree, Adriana’s hand rose instinctively to her mouth, stifling a proud laugh. Her eyes misted with emotion.
She remembered how, nearly a year ago, she had stood in the center of the royal hall, coronated amidst the weight of a grieving nation. Her parents were gone, the crown was hers, and all eyes watched to see how she would lead. But it was these small moments—when the weight melted away and all that remained was love—that reminded her why she led.
As the sun reached its peak, Adriana slipped through the garden shadows toward the royal carriage awaiting her by the ivy-covered back gate. Before climbing in, she paused, looking back once more.
The stage was now a dance floor, the twins leading a celebratory “wave-dance” to a lively local tune. Children swung their arms in the air, giggling wildly. The scent of fresh guava juice wafted through the air. The Secretary of Education spun in a circle, arms open, her face lit with joy.
In that moment, Adriana whispered to herself:
“Let them always be free to dance.”
As the carriage rolled quietly back to the palace, she carried with her the laughter of children and the knowledge that the future of Midori-Iro was bright—so long as they continued to believe in the magic of beginnings.
And somewhere, nestled in a thousand little baskets, was the promise that they would.