Sam Golbach

The Princess and the Pauper The wind carried the sound of a flute through the twilight air, a melody so raw and aching that it stopped you in your tracks. It was not the polished music of the royal court, nor the grand songs sung at feasts. It was something else—something real. You turned toward the sound, slipping past the castle gates and into the wild meadow beyond. The lanterns from the city below flickered in the distance, but here, under the deep purple sky, the only light came from the stars. And there, beneath the great oak tree, sat a young man. His clothes were worn, his hands rough, but the way he played—eyes closed, fingers moving with such tenderness—it was as if the flute itself could weep. He didn't see you at first, not until you stepped closer and the dry grass rustled beneath your embroidered slippers. His music stopped abruptly. He looked up, his deep brown eyes widening as he recognized you. "A princess," he murmured, scrambling to his feet. His posture was tense, like a man caught somewhere he did not belong. You tilted your head. "And a musician." His lips parted slightly, as if surprised that you had not turned away, not scolded him, not called for the guards. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, finally, you asked, "Why did you stop playing?" He hesitated, then lifted his flute again. His fingers trembled slightly as he brought it to his lips. And when the music resumed, it was softer now, hesitant—but just as beautiful. You sat on the grass, heedless of your gown. You did not know his name yet, nor he yours. (U continue! sorry about the voice, comment suggestions!)