The room was still, and the air felt heavy, as though it hadn’t been stirred in ages.

At the edge of the bed sat a girl—small, frail—in a clean white gown, her damp hair scattered over her thin shoulders.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t even blink.

She was dead… except in body.

The door creaked open slowly. A man in his fifties stepped inside, holding a small notebook in his hand. His face bore the marks of a man who, despite all he had seen, had not lost his sense of compassion.

He froze at the sight.

His limbs numbed. His hands loosened.

He blinked several times, then stepped forward slowly.

He saw her.

A child—barely eleven.

Pale. Fragile. Eyes void of any light.

As though she had been born of ashes, not blood.

He sat gently on the chair before her, lowering his voice as if afraid to shatter whatever was left inside her.

Softly, he said:

— “Good evening…”

No response.

She was staring into a space that didn’t exist, as if she herself didn’t exist.

Lowering his voice even more, he whispered:

— “My name is Dr. Samil… I only came to see you.”

He extended his hand slightly, then stopped.

Her hands were clenched tightly on her knees, as though holding onto something invisible—or holding herself from falling apart.

He couldn’t bear it…

A hot tear slid down his cheek.

Covering his mouth, he murmured:

— “Dear God… what have they done to you?”

He had seen much in his life—wounded children, broken women, men destroyed by war—

but never a child with such heavy silence… such slow death… at such a young age.

He quietly wrote in his notebook:

> “The girl is in severe trauma. Total silence. No eye contact. No reaction to stimuli. Requires long-term psychological support. Avoid all pressure and repeated trauma.”

He looked at her once more and said:

— “I’ll come back every day… just to sit here. Nothing more.”

He stood.

But before leaving, he turned and said:

— “It’s too dark in here… I’ll ask them to open the windows.

See you tomorrow, little one.”

And then, he left.

…

Days and months passed.

The doctor’s visits became routine.

He entered quietly, greeted her gently, sat by her side, sometimes speaking of the weather, reading short stories, or sketching flowers on blank pages and leaving them for her.

She never replied.

But somehow… she listened.

Every day, he noted something new—her calmness, her steady breathing, the stillness that slowly changed.

Even if she never spoke.

On some days, he simply sat there.

No words.

Just his presence.

He made sure she took her medications.

She began to drink slowly.

Then eat.

Then walk a little around her suite.

The progress was slow… but it was there.

Then, one morning, he entered carrying something wrapped in simple white cloth.

Smiling as he walked in, he said:

— “I have a little surprise today.”

He approached, sat as usual, and gently unwrapped the cloth.

A flower.

A single bloom, soft violet tinged with blue.

He placed it on the table between them and said with a warm smile:

— “It’s called Iris… and there’s a special kind called Iris Irene.

It’s quite rare, which makes it… special.”

He paused for a moment, then asked gently:

— “Do you like it?”

For a long, silent moment… nothing.

Then…

Her lips moved.

Slowly, as though a voice had been unearthed from beneath a year of ruin, she whispered:

— “…Irene.”

The doctor gasped.

He leapt from his seat, stunned.

— “W-what did you say?”

Her eyes were on him now. Slowly. Without fear.

He smiled like a man who had found treasure and, with tear-filled eyes, said:

— “Yes! Yes, that’s the Irene flower! Well done! You’re smart… so very smart!”

He covered his mouth, eyes brimming with tears, and whispered:

— “Thank you, Lord… thank you.”

He sat again and asked softly:

— “Do you know it?”

She replied in a hoarse, heavy voice:

— “My name… is Irene.”

His heart trembled.

— “Your name? Are… are you sure?”

She looked at him calmly and whispered:

— “Irene.”

He smiled, leaned in gently, and opened his arms—embracing her with the tenderness of a father who had lost all hope and just found it again.

— “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Irene…

Such a beautiful name.

Fitting for someone like you.

Beautiful… despite everything, you’ve remained beautiful.”

…

The doctor left her suite, his face glowing with genuine, rare joy.

His steps were swift, notebook trembling in his hands—as if even the pages couldn’t contain the news.

He didn’t wait long before reaching the king’s office.

He requested an audience and was granted entry.

He stood firmly before King Arcson, who sat behind his desk, writing something down.

The king slowly raised his gaze and stared at him.

The doctor spoke with restrained excitement, his voice quivering slightly:

— “Your Majesty… the girl spoke. She told me her name.”

The king’s brow rose slightly—just barely—and he replied coldly:

— “Truly?”

— “Yes. She said her name is… Irene.”

Silence fell.

Then… the king smiled.

A quiet smile, but without warmth… without surprise.

In a low, emotionless voice, he said:

— “Well done, Dr. Samil.”

Then, with the same cold tone:

— “Continue her treatment.”

The doctor nodded with a slight bow and left the office, the light of joy still gleaming in his eyes.

…

The king, however… remained seated alone.

He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, then muttered in a voice no one could hear:

— “Irene… so that’s your name.”

Silence.

Then he smiled again, slowly, his gaze drifting to the window.

— “I was about to end this performance… but it seems the gods want you to live a little longer.”

…

No sooner had the doctor left the king’s office… than the name “Irene” swept through the palace like a storm of whispers.

> “Her name is Irene.”

“She’s called Irene—can you believe it?”

“Louisa’s daughter… she finally spoke.”

The news didn’t stay confined within walls.

It passed from servants to guards, from kitchens to the cleaning halls, and then slipped like cold smoke into the chambers of the three queens.

…

In the western wing, where Queen Lorine resided, the air was tense.

She sat before her mirror, inspecting her face as she did every morning, flanked by two young maids fixing her hair and dress.

Suddenly… one of the maids leaned in and whispered something into her ear.

Lorine’s hand froze mid-brush.

— “What did you say?”

The maid replied timidly:

— “The girl… Louisa’s daughter… she spoke. Her name is Irene.”

Her jaw tightened.

She glared at her maid through the mirror, then abruptly stood up—startling the girls around her.

Then snapped:

— “Irene?! Irene?! What a ridiculous name!”

She began pacing the room, as though the ground itself resisted her steps.

— “That brat… that wretched Louisa. It wasn’t enough to taint the palace with her filthy presence, now she’s left behind a daughter who insists on staying!”

She slapped her vanity table with an open palm:

— “Even from the grave, that maid tries to leave her mark on this place!”

Then she turned to the maids and screamed:

— “Out of my sight!”

The girls scurried away without a word.

Lorine remained alone in the room, her reflection in the mirror stern… but in her eyes—an old flicker of jealousy that never quite faded.

She clenched the sleeves of her dress and hissed:

— “I won’t let her forget what she is.

Irene… or whatever your name is, you won’t thrive in this palace while I still draw breath.”

…

And at that very moment, Irene stood silently by her window, staring at the distant garden, unaware that her name had become the talk of the entire palace.