The day the palace courtyard became a marketplace, the air smelled like sweat, dust, and desperation.
It started as a rumor at dawn, the kind that usually crawled through the village like a lazy lizard and died before noon. But this one had legs. It ran.
The crowned prince is dying.
The king will choose the mother of his grandchild.
Whoever carries the prince’s child will wear a crown.
By the time the sun climbed high enough to burn the red earth paths, the maidens of Umuno were already moving. They arrived in groups, in pairs, alone, escorted by mothers who suddenly remembered prayer. They poured through the palace gates in bright wrappers and sharp perfumes, elbows knocking, eyes fierce, voices loud enough to crack the sky.
“I carry the crown prince’s child!”
“No, I do!”
“Bring the midwife! Let her check us now!”
Some held their stomachs as if the babies might tumble out from the noise. Some cried before anyone accused them, performing innocence like a dance they’d practiced in secret. A few looked proud, chins lifted, already tasting the sound of people calling them “Your Highness.” And some, Adana could see, were not hungry for a crown at all. They were hungry the way poverty makes you hungry, desperate enough to swallow shame if it meant the next season might not break your family’s back.
Guards tried to keep order, but even their spears looked uncertain against a storm of feminine rage and hope. Elders sat in the shade with tight faces, as if watching their own traditions being dragged through mud. The courtyard that was usually quiet, respectful, and careful with words became loud, shameless, and hot. It was not just noise. It was fear wearing the mask of ambition.
And that was how trouble began.
Once upon a time, Umuno was a village stitched together by deep Igbo tradition. The people lived by farming and market days, moonlight stories and festival drums, the quiet authority of elders who had seen too much to be fooled by small theatrics. Above the village sat a palace on a hill, watching over thatched roofs and palm trees like a proud eye that never fully closed.
Beyond it lay the sacred forest.
People did not walk into that forest carelessly. They walked softly, with respect in their throats, because inside that forest flowed a river that many believed carried miracles in its current. In Umuno, they said truth always returns, even if it takes blood to drag it home.
Every morning, roosters crowed like they were competing for the throne themselves. Women stepped out early with hoes balanced on their shoulders, heading to the farms before the sun became cruel. Children ran to the stream with clay pots, laughing, splashing, arguing about who would fetch water faster. Smoke from cooking fires rose in thin lines, and the whole village smelled of wood, pepper, and fresh cassava.
The people respected their king, King Akenna, because he ruled with calm wisdom. He was not the kind of man who rushed to shout or punish. Even when angry, his voice remained steady, and that steadiness frightened people more than any scream. Everyone knew King Akenna did not speak twice on the same matter. If he spoke once, your bones should listen.
But the biggest pride of Umuno was his son.
Prince Chidi.
Handsome did not fully describe him. Chidi was the kind of beauty that made heads turn without asking permission. Tall, well-built, shoulders broad, skin dark and smooth, jaw sharp, eyes deep brown and warm. When he smiled, a small dimple appeared on one cheek, and even the toughest market women suddenly softened as if remembering their youth.
Yet it wasn’t only his face that made people love him.
Chidi carried himself like someone raised in royalty, but he greeted people like they mattered. He walked through the village with a respectful ease that made old men straighten their backs, surprised every time, even though he did it often.
“My prince,” they would say, wiping sweat from their faces.
“Papa, good morning,” Chidi would answer, smiling. “How is your body today?”
Sometimes he didn’t just greet. He helped. If an old man struggled to lift a basket of yams, Chidi would bend, pick it up like it weighed nothing, and walk with him for a while.
“Ah, leave it, my prince,” the man would protest, embarrassed.
Chidi would laugh softly. “If my hands cannot carry yam, what are they good for?”
The story would grow by evening the way stories always do. By night, people would swear Chidi carried ten baskets at once.
Children loved him most. When they saw him, they ran toward him shouting his name like a song. Chidi would crouch, let them climb his back, and chase them until they screamed with laughter. Sometimes he bought them roasted corn from the roadside woman. Sometimes he simply sat and listened to their small worries like they were important. It made people forget he was born into power.
And the maidens, they watched him like a blessing they wanted to catch with both hands.
Whenever Chidi passed, girls adjusted wrappers, fixed headscarves, laughed too loudly, pretended they weren’t looking while looking with their whole hearts. Mothers whispered prayers for their daughters. Young men envied him quietly. Older women shook their heads and said, “This one… women will scatter the ground because of him.”
Nobody knew then how true those words would become.
Because if there was one thing Prince Chidi did not enjoy, it was being trapped behind palace walls like a fine goat meant for display.
The palace was beautiful, yes. Smooth floors. Wide rooms. Servants moving quietly like shadows. But Chidi never looked fully happy inside it. He sat through long meals, nodded politely to elders, answered in that calm, respectful way that made everyone admire him even more. Then, the moment he was free, he stepped outside and breathed like a man who’d been holding his breath too long.
Most days he left without noise, dressed simply, nothing that shouted royalty, and walked down the hill into the village like the red earth belonged to him too.
The guards hated it, but Chidi was not reckless. He simply loved the life of the people.
And sometimes, after greeting everyone and helping in the farms, after smiling at maidens, Chidi would change direction. He would leave the busy paths and head toward a quieter side of the village where farmland stretched wide and the air smelled of wet soil.
It wasn’t the richest farm area. It wasn’t the biggest.
It was just quiet.
And there, bent over ridges, worked a young woman named Adana.
Adana was poor, but she carried herself like she was not begging life for permission to breathe. Her beauty was quiet, the kind that didn’t shout but still made people look twice without understanding why. Her skin was dark and smooth like clean palm oil. Her face was soft, lips full, eyes calm and unhurried. Even tired, she looked like someone with sense.
Her wrapper was simple and clean, tied firm for work. Her hair stayed packed under a scarf. She worked like the farm was a promise she could not break.
Her mother, Goi, was not old, but sickness had been eating her strength slowly. She coughed often, deep coughs that sounded like they came from inside her chest. Sometimes she paused, pressed her fist to her mouth, and breathed hard like she was trying not to shame herself before her daughter.
“Go slow,” Adana would say gently, adjusting her mother’s wrapper. “Let me do the heavy one.”
“My daughter, I am fine,” Goi always tried to lie.
Adana could see the truth in her mother’s eyes, so she did most of the work. She dug ridges, carried water, cleared weeds, and still found time to help her mother sit under shade when the coughing grew too much. She never complained. Not once. That was why people respected her.
Adana also had something else: a spirit that did not enjoy seeing others fall. If she knew your secret, it died in her chest. If she saw your shame, she covered it with silence. That kind of kindness made noise in a village where gossip was a sport.
Men noticed her. Some came with real intentions. Some came with pride dripping from their tongues. A few rich boys arrived with laughter and mockery disguised as generosity.
One of them, Chukuma, used to stand at the edge of her farm chewing a stick like he owned the air.
“Adana,” he would call loudly so everyone could hear. “If you marry me, you will stop suffering like this. You will enter a better life.”
His friends snickered.
Adana kept weeding, eyes on the ground.
“See your hands,” Chukuma pushed. “Hard work is not for fine girls. I can save you.”
That word save made Adana’s chest hot.
One day she finally looked up, face calm, eyes sharp.
“Save me from what?” she asked.
“From poverty, of course,” Chukuma laughed, as if poverty was a joke.
Adana nodded slowly. “So poverty is my name now.”
Her voice stayed soft, but the air around it hardened.
“Go and save yourself first,” she added quietly. “Your mouth is too proud.”
The boys walked away embarrassed, pretending they weren’t.
Goi worried at night, coughing softly outside their compound.
“My daughter,” she would say, “what if you reject the good ones and remain alone?”
Adana would rest her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I will not marry a man who will remind me every day that he saved me. I will not enter a home where I will be insulted with food.”
“You are stubborn,” Goi sighed.
Adana smiled a little. “No, Mama. I just have sense.”
It was that sense that made her freeze the first time she felt eyes on her.
She was bent over a ridge when she heard footsteps on the path. Not loud footsteps. Careful ones. She didn’t look up immediately, but she felt the strange weight of being watched. When she finally raised her eyes, a man stood there half-hidden behind tall grasses.
Prince Chidi.
He didn’t wave. He didn’t shout her name. He simply stood, calm, as if he didn’t want to startle her. Then, as if remembering himself, he turned and walked away.
From that day, Adana noticed him more. Not close. Never close. But sometimes she felt his gaze from a distance before he vanished again.
He didn’t rush her. He didn’t approach like a prince collecting a poor girl. If he came to her, he wanted it to be in a way that wouldn’t make her feel small.
His chance came the year the rains misbehaved.
The land cracked. The harvest returned crumbs. Adana and Goi stood in their farm looking at thin yams and tired ridges, and Goi’s eyes filled with tears she didn’t want to show.
“How will we manage?” Goi whispered.
Adana swallowed and forced a smile. “We will manage, Mama. We have managed before.”
But even she knew this one was worse.
That same week, Chidi came again. This time he walked straight into the farm. His clothes were simple, dusty at the hem. His face carried seriousness softened by gentleness.
“Good afternoon,” he said quietly.
Adana lowered her eyes. “Good afternoon, my prince.”
He shook his head slightly. “Please don’t call me that here.”
“But you are…” she began.
“I know,” he cut in gently. “But I came as Chidi.”
Goi tried to stand, but a cough folded her forward. Adana rushed to support her, and Chidi moved quickly too, holding Goi’s elbow with care.
“Mama, take your time,” he said.
He looked at the weak harvest, then reached into his pocket and brought out money, holding it out in a respectful way.
“Take this,” he said. “Use it for food until things improve.”
Adana stiffened. She needed it. Her stomach had been empty too many nights. But she hated pity dressed as kindness.
“No,” she said, pushing it back slowly.
Chidi blinked. “Why?”
“I’m grateful,” she said steadily, “but I don’t want pity. People will say you threw money at a poor girl.”
Chidi studied her face as if seeing something deeper than her words. Then he nodded, understanding.
He took the money back.
Adana relaxed, thinking that was the end.
Then he rolled up his sleeves.
Adana’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
Chidi picked up a hoe leaning near the tree. “If you won’t take money, let me help with work.”
“You can’t,” she whispered. “People will talk.”
Chidi gave a small smile. “People already talk. Let them talk.”
And he worked.
Not pretending. Not for show. He dug ridges properly. Cleared weeds. Carried water. Sweat gathered on his forehead; dust clung to his feet. He didn’t complain once.
Adana kept stealing looks at him, shocked every time her eyes met reality again. She had seen him from afar, admired by girls like a blessing. She had admired him too, secretly, then punished herself for it because what was the point?
Now he was here, in her mother’s poor farm, working as if it mattered.
At first it was just work and small talk. Then it became something steadier. Chidi asked about Goi’s health, about Adana’s dreams, her fears. He listened the way most men didn’t. He didn’t rush her. He didn’t impress her with promises. He just showed up again and again until his presence stopped feeling like surprise and started feeling like home.
One evening, after they finished working, Adana walked him partway toward the stream. The sky turned orange. A mango tree spread its branches wide like arms.
Chidi stopped beneath it and looked at her for a long time.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, suddenly shy.
“Because I have been fighting myself,” he said.
“Fighting yourself for what?”
“For you,” he said plainly.
Her breath caught.
“Adana,” he continued softly, “I don’t want to play with your heart. I don’t want to be like those men who come with sweet mouth and disappear. I want you to be the love of my life.”
Tears rose fast, embarrassing her with their honesty.
“I know you will think of the palace,” he said, as if reading her. “I know you will think you are not enough. But I am asking you as a man. Will you be with me?”
Adana looked down at her dusty feet, then back at him.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Chidi smiled slowly, dimple appearing, as if a burden had lifted.
From that day, their meetings became secret. They met near the mango tree where leaves could hide them. By the stream when the village was busy elsewhere. They laughed quietly, chased each other like children. When he caught her, he held her hands and kissed her carefully, warmly, as if he was afraid the world might break her if he wasn’t gentle enough.
Weeks turned into months.
Adana still feared the crown. Sometimes after laughter, she went silent.
“I’m not enough for you,” she whispered once. “One day you will remember you are a prince, and I will still be me.”
Chidi lifted her chin. “A heart is not measured by a wrapper,” he told her.
She wanted to believe him with her whole soul.
Then one morning, Adana woke and the room spun around her like a potter’s wheel. Dizziness hit. Her stomach turned. She covered her mouth and swallowed hard, pressing her palm to her belly.
The thought landed heavy as stone.
What if I’m pregnant?
She tried to explain it away as hunger, heat, fatigue. But later that day, Chidi didn’t come.
And Chidi always came.
Night fell. Still no Chidi. The next day passed, and Adana’s chest tightened like rope around her ribs.
That same night, Chidi climbed the hill behind the farms to clear his mind. The palace pressure had begun to squeeze him: elders speaking more about marriage, about choosing a bride “befitting” the future throne, maidens throwing themselves in his path, his father watching him like time was running out.
Chidi climbed to breathe.
And then the earth betrayed him.
His foot slipped where the path narrowed. His hand reached for a root and missed. He fell hard, head striking rock, body rolling down the slope until he landed twisted and still in tall grass.
The night swallowed the sound.
By morning, farmers found blood on leaves, crushed grass, a shoe. They ran, shouting, and what they found made legs weak.
The crown prince lay unmoving.
They carried him down in panic. Women wailed. Men prayed. The palace became a storm.
When King Akenna saw his son’s body, dusty and bloodied, his cry shook the land. It was not a king’s shout. It was a father’s grief remembering it was human.
Healers came. Herbs, chants, incense, bitter roots forced between lips.
Nothing.
By afternoon, the word settled into the village like ash:
The prince is in a coma.
Adana heard it and felt her blood turn to water.
She wanted to run to the palace, to push through the crowd, to hold his hand and cry his name. But no one knew. To the village she was only Adana, the poor farm girl. If she appeared weeping like a wife, they would mock her, accuse her, punish her for claiming what wasn’t hers.
So she cried in silence.
At night she went to the shrine at the village edge, knelt before the oil lamp, and clasped her hands so tight her fingers hurt.
“God, please,” she whispered. “Don’t take him. I don’t want a crown. I don’t want riches. I only want him to live.”
She cried until her voice failed.
And while the palace stayed tense, whispers began to grow teeth.
“Who will inherit if he dies?”
“Does the king have a brother?”
“Will the elders fight?”
Politics slithered out, hungry.
Then the madness arrived at the palace gates: maidens claiming pregnancy, trying to become the answer to a throne’s panic.
Adana stood at the edge of the courtyard under a simple scarf, heart racing as she watched girls shout and swear. She saw her best friend, Urena, near the front, chin raised, eyes shining like she was already wearing coral beads.
Cold slid down Adana’s spine.
She grabbed Urena’s wrist and pulled her aside.
“Urena,” she whispered sharply. “Come.”
Urena smiled wide, loud enough for people to notice. “My sister!”
“Keep your voice down,” Adana hissed, dragging her behind a pillar where fewer ears could hear.
Urena frowned. “What is it? You look sick.”
Adana swallowed. “I am pregnant.”
For half a second, Urena’s smile froze. Just half. Then it returned bright, sweet, practiced.
“Are you sure?” she whispered, squeezing Adana’s hands.
Adana nodded. “It can only be Chidi.”
“Chai! God has done it!” Urena breathed, hugging her tightly.
Adana exhaled like she’d found ground.
But inside Urena’s chest, envy stretched awake and smiled without joy.
That night King Akenna stood before the courtyard, voice calm and heavy.
“The spirit said just one,” he declared. “Just one of you carries my son’s child. In seven market days, you will return for a test.”
The village turned into a furnace of schemes.
Girls sought men in the dark like thieves. Some paid boys. Some used lovers. Some visited married men promising silence. Families coached daughters how to cry convincingly. Aunties brewed herbs to swell bellies. Pride and hunger danced together, and the palace became a stage for lies.
Adana stayed home, holding her belly, whispering prayers.
Then test day came.
Midwife Neca, older and sharp-eyed, checked the maidens one by one, and the courtyard shook with shock because many were truly pregnant. Not one. Many.
King Akenna’s jaw tightened, insulted by the thought that his disciplined son could have touched half the village.
Then the chief priest offered a ritual: a seed test in the prince’s garden.
“Let truth rise,” the priest chanted. “Let lies wither.”
Days passed. The village visited the garden like festival ground.
Most plants were weak, crooked, struggling.
But Adana’s grew strong, bright, upright, greener than the rest, as if the soil recognized her blood.
Whispers grew:
“Is it not Adana’s own?”
“See how it shines.”
Hope trembled in Adana’s chest like a newborn thing.
And then, one late night, Urena slipped into the garden like a shadow.
She stared at Adana’s plant glowing softly beneath moonlight, and her envy sharpened into decision.
If there was no plant, there would be no winner.
She ripped. She crushed. She stomped.
Not only Adana’s.
All of them.
By morning, the garden looked like sickness had passed through it. The palace erupted. Accusations flew. Mothers pulled daughters back like the soil itself was cursed.
Midwife Neca crouched, studying the ground like a hunter.
“A woman did this,” she whispered. “And she is close.”
Before the crowd could tear itself apart, Dibia Okori arrived, a respected spiritual man whose presence quieted mouths.
“There will be a final test,” he said, eyes hard. “Go into the sacred forest and fetch Mamirri Indu, the Water of Life. The true mother’s offering will wake the prince. Those who lied will be exiled from Umuno.”
Fear broke the crowd’s pride.
Confessions poured out. Girls ran away crying.
Only two stepped forward and refused to bend.
Adana… quiet, trembling, determined.
And Urena… bold, chin lifted, eyes bright with ambition.
Adana pulled her aside, shaking.
“Why did you step forward?”
Urena’s smile turned sharp. “Do you think only you deserve him?”
“Urena…”
“I was also with him,” Urena lied, her voice steady enough to wound.
Adana felt the ground move under her.
By morning, the village gathered as if waiting for war news.
They watched Adana and Urena leave the palace, carrying pots and small bags, walking toward the sacred forest.
At the boundary, a masked hunter stepped close to Adana.
“Be careful,” he murmured. “Someone doesn’t want you to return.”
Adana’s heartbeat stuttered.
She entered the forest with her fear tied behind her like a stubborn child.
Inside, the world changed. Trees crowded thick. Sunlight dimmed. Bird calls sounded haunting. The air smelled of wet earth and old secrets.
Urena walked beside her with false gentleness.
“Slow down,” Urena offered. “You’re pregnant.”
Adana pulled away. “Save your care.”
The silence between them sharpened.
When they finally reached the river, it shone calm beneath filtered light, but it felt alive, like something that could see through skin into the heart.
Adana knelt and prayed softly, honestly.
Urena dipped her pot first.
The moment she tried to lift it, her face tightened. The pot became heavy like stone, as if the river rejected her hands.
Adana watched, understanding mixing with fear.
Then Adana dipped her own pot. When she lifted it, it rose smoothly, full and steady.
Urena’s eyes flashed.
They began the journey back, night swallowing the forest, the truth between them heavier than any water.
By midday the next day, near the village boundary, Adana’s exhaustion finally caught her. She leaned against a tree and slid down to rest, eyes closing for only a moment.
Urena stood over the pots like a hawk over eggs.
And she did what envy always does when it finds opportunity.
She swapped the pots.
When Adana woke, she did not notice. She carried the wrong water toward the palace, believing she held her last hope.
The palace courtyard was packed, a sea of faces hungry for miracle.
Urena strode forward like a woman entering her future.
“I will go first,” she announced.
In the prince’s chamber, incense hung heavy. Chidi lay thin and still, lips dry, eyes closed.
Urena poured the water, called his name loudly, performed emotion like theater.
Nothing happened.
Murmurs rose outside the door like restless bees.
King Akenna’s voice dropped, dangerous. “Enough.”
Adana stepped forward.
She didn’t walk like a woman chasing a crown. She walked like a woman walking toward love.
She knelt beside Chidi, tears spilling without shame.
“Chidi,” she whispered, voice breaking like prayer. “Please open your eyes. Please don’t leave us. I’m here.”
She lifted the water gently to his lips.
And Chidi’s fingers moved.
The room froze.
His eyelids fluttered. Once. Twice.
Then slowly, like a man pulling himself from deep darkness, Prince Chidi opened his eyes.
The chamber exploded with cries.
King Akenna grabbed his son’s hand, sobbing openly. “My son… my son…”
Adana covered her mouth, shaking with relief, sobbing like her whole spirit had been held underwater and finally breathed.
Urena stood in the corner, stiff as wood, face drained of color.
Chidi’s gaze moved slowly, confused, then focused. His eyes settled on Adana like they recognized home.
In a weak voice, he said her name.
“Adana.”
Shock hit the room like sudden wind.
Chidi looked at his father, then at Adana, and whispered, “She is my true love.”
The murmurs outside became thunder.
And then Chidi’s face tightened, as if memory bit him.
“Father,” he said slowly, voice dropping into the room like a stone. “I remember falling.”
King Akenna leaned close. “Yes?”
Chidi swallowed. “I remember… someone behind me.”
Silence thickened.
Then he spoke the words that turned celebration into fear.
“I was pushed.”
King Akenna rose, fury replacing relief. “Lock the gates. Investigation starts now.”
The palace became cold.
Footprints were traced. Servants questioned. Guards watched. And the truth that envy tried to bury began clawing upward.
Midwife Neca confessed she saw two sets of footprints near the hill path. A palace maid admitted seeing a figure leaving the palace late that night, dressed fine, walking like someone who belonged.
King Akenna understood the pregnancy chaos had been a curtain, a distraction, while evil moved behind it.
A trusted guard followed the king’s adviser, Onu Obasi, and heard everything when Urena ran to him in panic: the plant destruction, the pot swap, the lies.
The net tightened.
Onu Obasi was arrested.
Urena tried to flee at night, but guards caught her at the boundary and dragged her back.
By morning, the village gathered again, not for miracle, but for judgment.
The truths were spoken aloud like stones thrown into a quiet pond: the destroyed plants, the swapped pots, the lies, the plotting to scatter the throne, the push on the hill.
The courtyard erupted in anger.
Urena knelt trembling, eyes darting like a trapped rat.
King Akenna’s voice thundered. “For this evil, you deserve death.”
A cry rose from the crowd, hungry for punishment.
Then Adana stepped forward.
Her hand rested on her belly. Tears shone on her cheeks, but her voice held steady.
“My king,” she pleaded, falling to her knees, “please don’t kill her.”
Silence fell so hard even the birds seemed to pause.
“You beg for the life of someone who tried to destroy you,” King Akenna said, voice low with disbelief.
Adana nodded, swallowing pain. “If she dies, it will not bring peace to my heart. Let her live with the truth. Let her carry her shame far away.”
For a long moment, the king stared at her as if seeing her properly for the first time.
Then he turned to Onu Obasi and demanded “Why?”
And Onu, pride broken, confessed envy of the throne, bitterness grown over years of serving close to power while never tasting it. He admitted following the prince, speaking behind him, pushing him, hoping the palace would fracture and the village divide.
King Akenna’s judgment fell like iron.
Onu Obasi was imprisoned for life, forced to live long enough to taste the bitterness he cooked.
Urena’s sentence followed.
“You will not die,” the king declared.
Hope flashed across her face for one foolish second.
Then he continued, voice hard. “You will be exiled from Umuno. You will leave before the sun sleeps today. You will never step on this land again.”
Urena screamed, raw and broken, as guards dragged her away.
Adana did not follow. Her mercy had been given. The rest belonged to truth.
Later, in the quiet that finally found the palace again, Chidi held Adana’s hands tightly.
“I almost lost you,” he whispered.
Adana’s tears returned, softer now. “I was afraid every day,” she confessed. “But I loved you every day too.”
Chidi’s eyes warmed. “Say it again.”
Adana swallowed. “I love you, Chidi.”
“And I love you,” he answered. “Not because you carry my child. Not because you saved me. I loved you before all of this. I love you still.”
In that embrace, the palace noise faded. The crown felt far away. It was only two hearts refusing to die.
Days later, Adana was crowned princess. The village decorated roads with palm fronds. Drums returned, beating joy instead of fear. Goi sat wrapped in clean cloth, tears streaming as she watched her daughter rise. Palace healers cared for her properly, and slowly her coughing eased, like a lamp finally receiving oil.
When Adana gave birth to a healthy baby boy, his cry filled the palace like an answered prayer.
King Akenna wept openly, holding the child briefly. “My future has returned,” he whispered.
They named the child Chisaram: God answered me.
And as the chief priest lifted the baby to bless him before the elders, his voice carried across the crowd:
“This child will bring a new era.”
In Umuno, people returned to farming and market days with lighter hearts. Mothers warned daughters about envy. Friends held each other tighter. And the palace, once shaken by lies, became a place where truth was spoken more boldly.
Because they had learned something the sacred river already knew:
A crown does not belong to the loudest voice.
It belongs to the truest heart.
THE END
