THE LATE DUKE’S WILL

That afternoon, I didn’t go down to the hall right away.

I sat alone by the window and let Isabelle’s memories flow through me more slowly, as though turning the pages of a diary.

I saw a fifteen-year-old Isabelle, standing in this very room not long after her father’s funeral, listening to Uncle Friedrich say, in that gentle voice of his, “You’re still young. Leave the estate’s books to me — all you need to learn is how to be a proper duchess.” Isabelle had nodded, relieved, even grateful — because she didn’t have to carry it all alone, not in the middle of the worst grief of her life.

I saw a twenty-two-year-old Isabelle, seated at her own birthday banquet, overhearing noble guests murmur behind her back that “the Duchess of Aldenburg is so gentle, she’ll probably just let her future husband handle all the estate business” — and Isabelle had smiled, taking it as a compliment.

I saw a twenty-five-year-old Isabelle, on the very birthday when, by her father’s will, she should have received full control of her inheritance, listening to Uncle Friedrich explain that “the legal formalities need more time, don’t worry, I’ll keep managing things smoothly as always” — and she, once again, nodded.

For three straight years after that, not a single document was ever put in front of Isabelle to sign, not a single meeting was she invited to, not a single figure was she shown.

She simply believed she wasn’t good at such things, and that having someone else handle it was a stroke of luck.

And last night — only last night, before I woke up in this body — Isabelle had walked past the orange grove after dinner, meaning to find Konrad and ask if he wanted more tea.

She heard his voice before she saw him.

“…I’ve never once seen Isabelle as a woman worth loving,” Konrad said, his voice soft, almost tender — a tenderness that had never once been directed at Isabelle.

“She’s only worth leaning on, Sophie. She always listens, always yields, never asks questions. Ten years with her, and I’ve never once had to argue about anything. It’s boring to the point of terror.”

Sophie — the orphaned cousin the Hartmann family had taken in since she was ten, who still called Isabelle “sister” at every meal — said nothing, only let her hand rest still in Konrad’s, under the moonlight filtering through the orange leaves.

Isabelle had stood there for a long time.

Long enough for both her legs to go numb.

Then she quietly returned to her room without a sound, and the next morning, as always, she told the kitchen to prepare Konrad’s favorite fried eggs.

I — the new “I” now sitting inside her body — clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms.

Not because I loved Konrad; I hadn’t even met him yet with my own consciousness.

But because I understood, all too well, the feeling of silently ordering fried eggs for breakfast right after hearing the man you love call you boring.

Isabelle’s ten years of patience weren’t ten empty years — they had a shape, a name, a specific breakfast like that one.