The morning sun bathed the royal gardens in a soft amber glow, casting long shadows over the delicate petals of hibiscus and white orchids that danced gently in the breeze. Nestled in a quiet corner of the palace grounds was a garden unlike any other—a sanctuary of remembrance. It was here, beneath the branches of two towering ancestral trees, that King Alano and Queen Leilani were laid to rest, honored each year not with pomp, but with quiet acts of love.
Ancil and Alexandria, the twin siblings of Queen Adriana, knelt side by side in the garden soil. At fifteen, they had grown into thoughtful and diligent young royals, bound together by a loss that had shaped their childhood and a future that demanded quiet strength.
Ancil carefully clipped the overgrown vines from the stone path that wound through the garden, while Alexandria gently brushed fallen petals from the engraved plaques bearing their parents’ names. Their hands moved with grace, not out of obligation, but out of the kind of reverence that words could never quite capture.
“I think they would’ve loved this season,” Alexandria said softly, breaking the silence, her gaze sweeping over the blooming kapu flowers planted the year they passed. “Mom always said spring reminded her of second chances.”
Ancil nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “And Dad would be out here humming that same old lullaby, even if he forgot the words halfway through.”
They both chuckled quietly, the memory warming the early morning chill.
Though Queen Adriana was not with them that day—her schedule filled with the day’s diplomatic briefings and constitutional meetings—her presence lingered. She had left them a note on the kitchen counter in her swirling cursive:
“Remember to prune the tulips by the fountain. And tell Mom and Dad I love them. — A.”
The twins smiled at the note, carrying her love with them like a folded promise in their pockets.
As they worked, they spoke of memories. Ancil recalled how their mother had taught them to plant their first seeds, and how their father’s boots always ended up muddy no matter how neat he tried to be. The garden, for all its silence, echoed with the laughter of their past, the soft rustling of leaves like whispered blessings from beyond.
By midmorning, the garden glowed with renewed life. Every leaf trimmed, every bloom upright. At the center, the fountain trickled softly—its basin now clean, glinting with fresh water and sunlight.
The twins knelt once more, heads bowed in silent prayer. They didn’t ask for anything. They simply gave thanks—for love, for memory, and for the strength their big sister showed as she carried their family legacy on her shoulders.
And though Adriana sat at a long council table that afternoon, wearing the crown of Midori-Iro, her heart found its way back to the memorial garden—where petals of memory bloomed, and where love was quietly, faithfully kept alive by the hands of her little brother and sister.