The Fool did not sleep well again.
He kept hearing the violin.
Even when it was silent.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the alley. When he opened them, he saw the ceiling of his room. Both felt equally uncertain.
He told himself it was nothing.
Just tiredness.
Just work.
Just imagination.
In the morning, the palace was already busy.
Something had changed, but no one said it directly.
Servants spoke faster. Guards stood closer together. Letters were carried more often between rooms.
The Fool noticed all of it.
No one explained anything to him.
They rarely did.
He stood in the corridor near the paintings again.
The Death of Socrates was still there.
But now another painting had been placed beside it overnight.
He had not seen it before.
It showed a man standing in a crowd, wearing red clothes like his own.
The Fool stepped closer.
The plaque read:
[Stańczyk at the Court Ball]
He stared at it.
The man in the painting sat alone in red while a party continued behind him.
Everyone in the painting was laughing.
Except him.
He was not smiling.
The Fool felt something small tighten in his chest.
"That is not funny," he said quietly.
He did not know why he said it.
He looked around.
No one was there.
At midday, he was called to perform.
The royal court was gathered again.
Same chairs.
Same faces.
Same laughter waiting to happen.
The Fool entered the hall.
He bowed.
The music began.
He performed as usual.
Stumbles.
Falls.
Confusion.
The court laughed.
He noticed something strange.
When they laughed, their mouths looked slightly too large.
He blinked.
They were normal again.
He continued performing.
A juggle.
A spin.
A fall that ended in silence before laughter returned.
But he could not focus.
His eyes kept drifting to the people watching him.
Their expressions seemed delayed.
Like they were reacting a moment too late.
He missed a step.
He actually fell this time.
A few people laughed harder.
A few did not react at all.
He stood up slowly.
His hands were shaking.
The performance ended early.
He was sent away.
In the corridor after, he stopped walking.
He leaned against the wall.
Something felt wrong.
Not painful.
Just wrong.
He heard footsteps behind him.
He turned.
A servant passed by carrying a tray of wine.
The servant did not look at him.
The Fool spoke.
"Excuse me."
The servant stopped.
"Yes?"
"Did anything happen in the border town?"
The servant hesitated.
Then shrugged.
"I don't know. People say many things."
"That's all?"
"It's not our concern."
The servant walked away.
The Fool stood still.
Not our concern.
He repeated it in his mind.
That evening, he returned to the painting hallway.
Stańczyk was still there.
He stared at it longer this time.
The painted man looked tired.
Not sad.
Not angry.
Just aware.
The Fool spoke softly.
"Are you real?"
The painting did not respond.
He laughed a little.
"Of course not."
He turned to leave.
But something made him look back.
The painting had changed.
The crowd behind Stańczyk was no longer laughing.
They were all staring at him.
At the Fool.
He froze.
He stepped closer.
The painting was still.
Just paint.
Just color.
He exhaled slowly.
"I need sleep," he said.
That night, the violin returned.
Not far away.
Not loud.
But close enough to feel like it was inside the walls.
He left his room again.
No one stopped him.
The corridors were empty.
He followed the sound.
Downstairs.
Past storage rooms.
Past old stone steps that led deeper than usual.
He had never been here before.
The palace had places even he was not allowed to understand.
The music grew clearer.
He reached a door.
Wooden.
Old.
Unmarked.
The violin stopped.
Silence.
He hesitated.
Then pushed the door open.
Inside was a small room.
Empty.
Except for one thing.
A chair.
And on it ,
a painting.
Not hung.
Not framed.
Just placed there.
He stepped closer.
It was a painting of a crucifixion.
A man on a cross.
Head tilted.
Eyes open.
But the face was wrong.
It looked like him.
The Fool stepped back immediately.
"No," he said.
His voice cracked.
He shook his head.
"No, no, no…"
He looked again.
The face was still his.
But older.
More tired.
Almost smiling.
The door behind him closed.
He turned quickly.
It was shut.
He tried it.
Locked.
He turned back to the painting.
The figure on the cross looked down at him.
For a moment,
just a moment,
the painted mouth moved.
Not speaking.
Smiling.
The Fool stumbled backward.
His breathing quickened.
"This is not real," he said.
The painting did not change.
He forced himself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Slowly.
He looked again.
It was just a painting.
Just oil on canvas.
Nothing more.
He laughed nervously.
"Stupid," he whispered.
He turned away.
The room was empty again.
The painting was gone.
The chair was gone.
The door was open.
He stood frozen.
Then slowly walked out.
When he returned to his room, he did not sleep.
He sat on his bed and stared at his hands.
They looked normal.
But he kept thinking about the painting.
About the face.
About the cross.
About how calm it had looked.
Outside his window, London continued breathing.
Unaware.
Uninterested.
Alive.
Somewhere in the distance, very faintly,
a violin played again.
But this time,
he did not move to follow it.
The next day, the Fool was not called to perform.
That was unusual.
No one told him why.
He waited in the corridors for hours, but no servant came. No message arrived. Even the guards ignored him more than usual, like he had become part of the wall.
By afternoon, he decided to walk the palace again.
Slowly.
Quietly.
As if he might understand something if he moved carefully enough.
He returned to the painting hallway.
The two paintings were still there.
The Death of Socrates.
Stańczyk at the Court Ball.
And an empty space.
He stopped.
The space was not just empty.
The wall was clean, like nothing had ever been there.
He stepped closer.
He touched the wall.
Cold stone.
No trace of paint.
"No…" he whispered.
He stepped back.
"This is not normal."
He waited for someone to pass.
A servant walked by.
The Fool spoke quickly.
"There was a painting here yesterday."
The servant paused.
"There has always been only these two."
The Fool frowned.
"That's not true. I saw.."
The servant interrupted him.
"You should not spend so much time here."
Then the servant left.
The Fool stood alone again.
He stared at the wall.
His thoughts felt slow.
Heavy.
Like they were sinking into something soft inside his mind.
That evening, he was finally summoned again.
Not to perform.
To the royal council room.
He had never been invited there before.
That alone made him nervous.
The doors were large and heavy.
When he entered, the room fell quiet for a moment.
The King was there.
The Queen.
Several ministers.
And the steward who usually ignored him.
The Fool bowed.
No one told him to stand.
So he stayed bowed.
Finally, the King spoke.
"You may rise."
The Fool stood.
The King looked tired.
Not angry.
Just tired in a way the Fool did not understand.
"There are concerns," the King said.
The Fool waited.
The room felt colder than usual.
"What concerns?" he asked.
A minister cleared his throat.
"Reports of unrest in the border regions."
The Fool nodded quickly.
"I heard about the town."
At that, the room went quiet again.
The Queen looked at him carefully.
"What did you hear?" she asked.
"That it fell."
The King leaned forward slightly.
"And where did you hear this?"
The Fool hesitated.
"A letter."
"What letter?" the steward asked sharply.
"The one from nighs before."
The steward frowned.
"There was no letter."
The Fool blinked.
"Yes there was."
Silence.
The King looked at him for a long moment.
Then he spoke softly.
"No messenger arrived two days ago."
The Fool felt something shift inside him.
"That's not possible."
The Queen sighed gently.
"You are mistaken."
The Fool shook his head.
"I saw it. I saw the seal. I saw the writing."
The minister exchanged glances with the steward.
The King raised a hand.
"That will be all."
The Fool stepped back.
"I am not mistaken."
No one responded.
The meeting ended.
He was dismissed.
Outside the council room, the corridor felt longer than before.
The Fool walked slowly.
His thoughts were scattered.
If there was no letter…
Then what did he see?
He stopped walking.
"Did I imagine it?" he asked himself.
He shook his head.
"No."
But the doubt did not leave.
It stayed.
Like a small crack forming in something solid.
That night, he avoided the violin.
He told himself he would not follow it again.
He stayed in his room.
He sat on the bed.
He tried to think clearly.
But silence was worse.
Without noise, his thoughts grew louder.
He began remembering things he was not sure had happened.
The painting of the crucifixion.
The moving angel.
The violin in the alley.
The border town.
The letter.
He pressed his hands against his head.
"Stop," he whispered.
Outside, the palace creaked softly.
He stood up.
He needed air.
He left his room.
The corridors were darker at night.
No servants.
No guards.
Only candlelight.
He walked without direction.
Eventually, he found himself near the back wing of the palace.
A place he had never been before.
There was a staircase leading downward.
He did not remember it being there.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he went down.
The air changed as he descended.
Damp.
Cold.
He reached a lower corridor.
Stone walls.
No decorations.
No paintings.
Only doors.
Many doors.
Some open.
Some slightly cracked.
He walked slowly.
At the end of the corridor, he heard something.
A sound.
Not music.
Voices.
He approached carefully.
The sound came from behind a door.
He pushed it open slightly.
Inside was a small room.
Lit by a single candle.
And inside,
was a man sitting at a table.
Writing.
The Fool watched silently.
The man did not notice him.
He looked familiar.
Too familiar.
The Fool stepped inside.
The man looked up.
And stopped.
They stared at each other.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The man blinked.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said.
The Fool hesitated.
"Who are you?"
The man frowned.
"I am the Fool."
Silence.
The Fool took a step back.
"That's impossible."
The man stood slowly.
"I think you are the one who is impossible."
The Fool shook his head.
"I am the Fool."
The man nodded slowly.
"Yes. That is what they call you."
The Fool's breathing quickened.
"No… I am him."
The man studied him carefully.
Then he spoke softly.
"Then why are there two of you?"
The Fool froze.
"I don't understand."
The man looked down at the table.
On it were drawings.
Sketches.
Of the palace.
Of the ballroom.
Of the paintings.
And of the Fool.
Multiple versions.
Some smiling.
Some not.
Some broken.
Some crucified.
The Fool stepped closer.
"What is this?"
The man did not answer immediately.
Then he said:
"Records."
"Of what?"
The man looked at him.
"Of what you become when people watch you."
The Fool stepped back again.
"That doesn't make sense."
The man tilted his head slightly.
"Does anything here?"
The candle flickered.
The room felt smaller.
The Fool backed toward the door.
"This is wrong," he said.
The man did not stop him.
But before the Fool left, the man spoke one last time.
"Tell me something."
The Fool paused.
"Do you remember which version of you left the room last night?"
The Fool did not answer.
He left quickly.
Back in the corridor, he ran.
He did not stop until he reached the upper floors again.
His heart was beating too fast.
He leaned against a wall.
Breathing hard.
"What is happening?" he whispered.
No answer came.
Only silence.
But in the distance,
somewhere deep in the palace,
a violin began to play again.
Soft.
Patient.
Waiting.