Sometimes I dream of a gentler world, one painted in warm soft greens, cradled beneath the hush of a lonely night.

It is tender, yet heart-wrenching. Out of tune, and still beautiful in its hollow way.

I wonder, do you dream of the same colors as I do?

*****

Reina woke to the sound of a knock on her door.

“It is morning, Your Majesty.”

Knock… knock…

She knew that on the third knock, the door would open regardless of her reply. As always, her attendant Ann and her caretaker Chiyo would enter to draw the golden velvet curtains beside her white-framed bed.

If the day was bright, sunlight would pierce her room, awakening her gently; if not, the shifting shadows of clouds would whisper how cold the world outside might be.

But this morning, one thing was certain: what she had just seen in her dreams, those faint traces of warmth and green was now gone, leaving behind only a residue of feeling. A long-vanished moment that stained her heart with darker shades.

*****

An elegant woman stood before the mirror. Her black hair was swept into a simple up-do, pinned with jade, a quiet symbol of authority. A light muslin-blue gown flowed to her ankles, cinched by a dark brown silk sash: a mark of the new, simpler age that followed after the war. Yet her noble blood still glimmered in the strands of opera-length pearls that graced her collarbone.

Reina studied her reflection and smiled faintly, her eyes thinned slightly as she smiled.

Looks fitting.

“Thank you, Ann. It’s perfect.”

The young attendant bowed slightly, hands clasped.

“It is my pleasure, Your Majesty. Shall I read today’s schedule?”

The room soon filled with the murmur of names, times, and duties, an endless rhythm of routine. The day went on rewind for the young queen. 

From the window, the sky hung heavy with November gray. The clouds thickened, the air cold enough to bite. A promise of snow, or perhaps, upcoming premonition.

*****

Life always moved in predictable rhythms. As Reina entered the dining room, the butler drew back a white chair carved in the delicate Gustavian style. She sat; a maid poured freshly brewed black coffee into a porcelain cup, a western habit she had learned to enjoy.

But something was missing.

Her gaze drifted over the table. “Do we not receive any newspaper today?”

The maids exchanged wary glances until her senior maid, Chiyo, composed as ever, stepped forward.

“The newspaper boy did not arrive this morning, Your Majesty.”

“I see,” Reina replied evenly, lifting her cup. “That’s rather unusual.”

The faint bitterness of the coffee lingered on her tongue as she reached for her breakfast: a bowl of rice, tofu, and warm broth, her one constant reminder of home.

“Thank you, Taji,” she said softly.

The young man beside her table, barely twenty, smiled in return. His monolid eyes thinned as he bowed.

Taji was the son of the late royal chef, who had perished during the Falkenreich invasion five years earlier. Reina had taken the boy under her care, bringing him wherever she traveled, including here, to Elyndra: the neutral land between East and West, the bridge between her home and the former enemy, where embassies rose and treaties were spoken in careful tones. The new world that found its new form in the era after the war. 

Here, Reina had built her second home, a place where peace itself needed a voice.

*****

Though the air outside was sharp with cold, life still hummed along the cobbled streets as she stepped onto the pavement.

Elyndra had always been different. It is a nation that escaped the deepest wounds of war. The peace it brokered with the Falkenreich had saved its people from the three years of hunger and grief that scarred others. 

The scent of tobacco and tea mingled in the air. Men sat outside cafés in heavy coats, playing chess and speaking loudly over cups of steaming coffee.

Reina smiled, absorbing the simple scene into her lungs. 

Then, as her driver approached to open the car door, she gathered her composure.

It was time to begin the performance of her day.

*****

The car drove swiftly along the cobbled road by the water.
Tuvana, the capital of Elyndra, never failed to mesmerize her senses.
Bordered by the sea and connected by bridges, the city was a tapestry of motion, east and west meeting in the folds of its streets.

The car crossed into the western district and stopped before a building of stately neo-classical design. 

How different this is from Seirya.

Reina thought, gazing at the stone columns gleaming pale under the morning sun.

Pera hotel is the heart of the city, a meeting place for diplomats, merchants, and artists. It was not where Reina preferred to hold her appointments, the embassy she had built in Elyndra was her usual ground but today was an exception. 

She was to meet Sena Talia, an art director celebrated throughout Tuvana, to discuss an upcoming Christmas performance: a cultural collaboration meant to weave a message of peace between two nations once at war.

The car stopped at the entrance. Reina stepped out onto the velvet carpet and crossed the lobby with quiet poise, the click of her low heels echoing softly against the checkered marble floor, a faint reminder that every step she took was watched, counted, recorded.

It was not yet ten, but the Pera hotel already bursted with life. The hum of conversation, the scent of roasted coffee blending with the faint notes of a morning waltz from the gramophone. Beneath its soaring ceilings and cascading chandeliers, Reina entered into the crowd of strangers. 

Sena, true to her nature, had never sent any attendants to fetch the queen from the lobby. She never made their meetings formal, and Reina silently appreciated that small act of defiance.

The dining hall itself was a preserved elegance untouched by war,  red velvet carpets, rococo tables draped in the same rich hue, tall French windows dressed in crimson silk. The space felt like a stage, almost judging, waiting to decide which of its players deserved to speak.

At the center of the room, a familiar hand waved. A young woman with chestnut hair rose from her chair, sunlight catching the golden threads in her flapper dress. A fur shawl rested lightly on her shoulders, a sign of modern and freedom.

Reina’s face softened at the sight. Sena had that rare kind of presence, radiant, unburdened, unafraid of color in a world still painted in gray.

I wonder how she always carries such bright energy, even in the morning.

Sena smiled wide as Reina approached.

“I’m surprised you’re early today,” Reina said lightly, a trace of teasing in her tone.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” Sena laughed, dipping her head in an exaggerated bow, “let’s not dwell on past mistakes, shall we? Come, sit. Let’s make this morning useful.”

The waitress appeared soon after, bringing a set of dark tea and a tower of delicate condiments. Steam curled gently from the porcelain, filling the air with the faint scent of bergamot.

Time always moved a little faster when spent with Sena. Her presence splashed vivid brighter color across the white canvas of Reina’s day.

But beneath that, time prepared her for another missing rhythm. 

*****

The tea had just begun to cool when the murmur of the café shifted like the faint change like air before a storm. Reina’s hand, still resting on the porcelain cup, paused without knowing why.

The bright voice of Sena dominated her senses, lighting, colors, the stage design, her words fluttered like the colorful decorations on a Christmas tree. Yet, Reina felt it, gentle stroke of a gaze, a wave pulling in, grazing the edge of her presence.

There, at the far corner of the café, half-veiled by a pillar of marble and smoke from a nearby table, sat a man, hidden behind the shadow of the morning sun.

At first, he was only a figure, tall, dressed formally in a tie, suit and cream coat, his head slightly tilted, one hand resting against his chin as if in thought. But when the morning light from the window caught the edge of his face, she felt time miss its beat and slip into silence. 

Captivity had not broken him, only deepened the ocean in his eyes, the bright brass arrogant man was now replaced by something shadowed and steady. 

Her breath stilled, her chest stirred.
The sound of the gramophone flattened into pure foreboding silence. Only the pulse in her wrist remained, loud, erratic like the jazz rhythm. 

Johannes.

His wavy golden hair was shorter than she remembered, set like a soldier ready for war, a small smille tugged on his thin lips. Her instinct told her

He was not supposed to be here. Not in Elyndra. Not yet. How?

Then the answer she was looking for was painted in dark bold on the table beside her. The forgotten newspaper she missed this morning holding the uncomfortable truth.
There it was:

“Albrecht von Eisenwald’s son released from custody — granted early freedom for good conduct.”

Three years turned into two.
The words blurred as she read them again, her reflection trembling faintly in the ink.

So he was free. And yet, freedom had never looked so heavy on anyone.

Reality moved untouched, the sound folded into the hum of laughter, the clink of porcelain, the world spinning forward as if nothing had changed.

But Reina knew that everything had changed. Because when she looked up again, his eyes were already waiting, the ocean waves pulling. 

And for the briefest second, the missing beat found its echo,
two rhythms colliding, discordant yet whole, 

The world became that dream again, painted in soft green,
warm and terribly, terribly alive.

*****

Authors note:

Thank you for reading my very first labor of imagination and passion. Reina and Johannes’s story is something that has stayed within me for a very long time- Their characters matured as I entered different stages of life, traveled to different parts of the world, and reconnected with my own soul. I hope you’ll continue to enjoy their journey! 

The world of Johannes and Reina is a fictional one, inspired by early 20th-century Europe. During this era, many nations were consumed by war and friends often became foes. It was a time of upheaval when many monarchies fell and countries transitioned into republics. To this day, the scars of those wars can still be felt across Europe.

“Firedove” is the song I listened to while writing this chapter. I believe it perfectly fits Reina’s life in her second home.

Firedove – Anna Lapwood