"Some women leave behind crowns. Others leave behind legacies."
I am Juliet.
And I have read Sister Sarah's memoir.
And now, I write this — not as a nun, not as a witness, but as a friend.
Do not worry.
Salma died with honour.
Though her name was forgotten by her blood, it was remembered by heaven.
They buried her in the royal cemetery — robes of silk, gold-stitched prayers whispered half-heartedly by men who once ignored her pain.
But they did not invite Halal, her beloved granddaughter.
That poor child…
A girl who once signed cheques in rooms too dark for her innocence.
A girl mocked for her skin, denied affection, and treated like a coin purse in human form.
Yet Salma never forgot her.
I remember the day she signed her will. I was there — the sun outside fading behind St Andrews' stained-glass windows. Her fingers, trembling with age and fever, wrote only one name.
Nalal.
She turned to me and whispered,
> "They'll devour her if I don't protect her. Let her touch nothing until she's twenty. By then, she will know their games and choose her own path."
And now… Halal is nearly twenty.
No longer the timid girl with soft eyes and silent pain.
She's grown — tall with grace, rich in knowledge, quiet in power.
They no longer want her, not now that her hands are closed to their greed.
But soon, they will remember her.
Soon, the lioness will rise.
When she turned nineteen, I handed her Salma's memoir — wrapped in silk, sealed with a letter marked My Final Wish.
She read every page in tears. And when she reached the end, she closed it and said,
> "She belongs to St Andrews. Not their gold-tiled tombs."
And that day, Halal kept her grandmother's final vow.
With no ceremony and no applause, Salma Monstel — the woman who wore silence like a crown — was brought home.
We buried her beneath the lilac tree, beside Mother Superior Monstel and Sister Sarah — her teachers, her sisters, her peace.
There was no royal anthem. No banners.
Just whispered prayers, a wooden cross, and the scent of lavender in the wind.
That was enough.
Because she was the girl who walked her life politely, with humility.
You will not find her name among the world's richest, but she owns half their kingdoms.
She was never a woman of noise — she was a woman of truth.
And she was Salma Monstel — the only true friend I ever had.
I have held onto her memoir for many years, tucked beneath my bed, like a prayer too sacred to speak aloud.
But today, I open it.
Today, I fulfill her final request.
And today, I finally let her story be known.
She was not just a princess.
She was not just a nun.
She was a mother.
A protector.
A lion in lamb's wool.
And she has returned home.