A week had passed since the funeral, and the house felt even emptier than before. Visitors had stopped coming, the sympathetic voices had gone silent, and even the servants spoke in hushed tones. I got up every morning without knowing what to do with my hands. Silence weighed on my shoulders like a damp blanket. I gradually understood that the world had not stopped with him.
The hallways sounded different without the noise of his steps. Every door I opened reminded me that he was no longer behind it. Sometimes I touched the walls as if I could still feel his presence. The house was no longer a refuge; it had become a place of painful memories. Yet, I still refused to leave these rooms.
I spent long hours sitting in the hall where he had asked me to accompany him to the ceremony. That scene kept replaying in my mind. His calm voice, his assured gaze, the way he smiled at me. The more I thought about it, the more unreal the end seemed. I felt as if I had dreamed the explosion.
The servants watched me with concern, but none dared to speak openly. I ate little, slept poorly, and my nights were filled with fractured images. Sometimes I woke convinced I had heard his step in the hallway. Then I remembered the earth covering his coffin. That thought took my breath away.
That morning, I decided to do something ordinary to keep from going mad. I went into his office, a place I had hardly touched since his death. The room still smelled of leather and fresh ink. Light poured through the window, illuminating stacks of documents left in disorder. I realized that I had to start by tidying up.
I sat at his desk, exactly where he had written his reports. I wasn't looking for anything in particular; I only wanted to put a little order back. I began sorting the documents related to the ceremony. Invitations, plans, guest lists, preliminary reports—I glanced at them almost by reflex. He had always made small personal notes in the margins. I could recognize his handwriting anywhere. It was firm, straight, without hesitation.
Turning over a copy of the imperial invitation, I noticed something on the back. A short phrase, hastily written but clearly legible. I leaned closer to see, my heart suddenly more alert. The words were simple but precise. They were not trivial.
He had written: "Refuse modification of platform position. Unnecessary risk." I remained still for several seconds, rereading the note. I remembered perfectly that the platform had been moved that very day. The position was not the one on the initial plans, so how could my husband not have noticed? My mind began to make a connection.
At first, I thought he had simply changed his mind. Decisions sometimes evolved with circumstances. Perhaps he had judged the risk acceptable at the last moment. I searched for a simple explanation to calm my unease. Yet something inside me resisted that idea.
I remembered distinctly the morning of the ceremony. He had stayed with me longer than expected, talking about trivial matters. He had received no urgent messenger, signed no documents in my presence. His behavior was normal, almost relaxed. Nothing indicated a major strategic decision.
The more I thought about it, the stranger the note seemed. Why write "refuse" if it was to be accepted afterward? He was methodical, he did not act lightly. Every word he put on paper had a precise meaning. This inconsistency disturbed me deeply.
I placed the invitation on the desk and got up to walk around the room. My eyes fell on the shelves, on his books, on his military maps. I unconsciously searched for an answer in these familiar objects. But the room remained silent in the face of my questions.
I picked up the sheet again and compared it to the official plan of the ceremony. The layout I had seen displayed in the square did not match the initial configuration. The platform had been oriented differently, slightly turned to the west. This detail returned with troubling clarity. It was nothing important, but still, it was odd.
I simply wondered if there had been an administrative error. Perhaps someone had made the decision on his behalf to save time. Organizing an imperial ceremony involved dozens of officials. It was possible that a misunderstanding had occurred.
Yet the phrase "unnecessary risk" echoed in my mind. He was cautious, especially at public events. He knew he was respected but also criticized. He never made a decision that would expose the crowd unnecessarily. This caution was part of his nature.
I tried to convince myself that I was looking for problems where there were none. Grief could cloud judgment. Perhaps my mind wanted to give meaning to the absurdity of his death. It was easier to believe in an error than in a brutal inevitability.
Despite this, I carefully folded the invitation and set it aside. I did not want it to be filed with the other documents. Something told me it had a particular importance. It was not proof, just a detail. But that detail refused to disappear.
Afternoon passed and the light changed in the room. Shadows stretched over the desk, giving the objects a different appearance. I sat down again and stared at the note for several minutes.
My mind kept returning to that simple phrase. I remembered a conversation with one of his workers two or three months ago, where he spoke about security protocols. He always said that positioning was essential to control blind spots. He repeated that moving a location at the last moment created vulnerabilities. He had even reminded me of this the day before we left for the academy.
If the platform had been moved despite his note, someone must have intervened. But who would have had the authority to change a plan that was already approved? I knew little of administrative details, but I knew he never left his decisions to chance. This thought sent a shiver through me.
I wondered if I should mention the note to someone. Perhaps to a close friend who often visited us. He knew politics well and could explain the situation. Yet a strange hesitation held me back. I did not want to appear suspicious.
As I put away the rest of the papers, I noticed that nothing else seemed unusual. Signatures, seals, dates all matched the usual procedures. Everything seemed orderly and official. This normality contrasted with the small phrase written on the back of the invitation.
Evening fell slowly over the house. Torches were lit in the hallways and a heavier atmosphere settled in. My husband's family had come to see me, concerned, but I reassured them that I was fine.
His family rarely visited, but since his death, they came every three or four days. Witnessing this, with everything on my mind, naturally stirred suspicions.
I remained alone in the office, still holding the paper between my fingers. I knew I could not forget it. I finally left the room, taking the invitation with me. I did not want it to disappear among the other documents. I slipped it into a personal drawer in my bedroom. The gesture was instinctive, almost protective.
Lying on my bed, I replayed the events in my head. The explosion, the smoke, his surprised gaze. I tried to place the platform in my exact memory. The image returned clear, precise, almost painful.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the final position had exposed his right side more. That was exactly where his chest plate had been struck. This coincidence disturbed me deeply. I did not like coincidences.
I sat up abruptly, my heart beating a little faster. I had no proof, only a persistent feeling. But this feeling grew like a silent shadow. I could no longer ignore it.
I tried to calm my thoughts by telling myself that the imperial investigation was ongoing. The officials would find the culprit and everything would be clarified. I had neither the power nor the experience to understand political mechanisms. Yet I remained unsatisfied.
The night was restless, filled with confusing dreams. In one of them, he pointed at the platform without being able to speak. I woke with a start, the name stuck in my throat. My mind refused rest.
The next morning, I read the note one last time. The words did not change; they remained simple and direct. "Refuse modification of position." This phrase became the center of my thoughts.
I wondered if he had had a premonition. Perhaps he had sensed a danger I could not understand. If he had wanted to refuse, why was it not respected? This question now seemed essential.
For the first time since his death, my sadness mixed with something else, a deep unease. I felt that something was eluding me. This sensation was more disturbing than the pain itself.
I told no one of this discovery. I continued to behave like a silent, broken widow. But inside, a small light had been lit. It illuminated a zone I had never explored.
It was just a detail written on the back of an invitation, nothing more. Yet this detail changed the way I looked at the ceremony. If the platform should not have been moved, then something had been decided without him. And this single possibility had fractured my grief.
I slid the note into the drawer without knowing what awaited me.