Horatio! Wait!

(Stopping) Why are you whispering?

Because someone might hear us.

(Looking around) There's nobody here.

Exactly.

That isn't reassuring.

It should be.

How?

Because if nobody is here, then I need you to explain who was speaking to me last night.

We're beginning with this again?

I haven't stopped thinking about it.

Then perhaps that's the problem.

You think I'm imagining things.

I think you've been carrying grief on your shoulders for months, and grief has a habit of making shadows look like people and coincidences look like signs.

No.

No?

This was different. I spent all day trying to explain it away. I told myself it was the wind. I told myself it was exhaustion. I told myself it was some cruel joke. But every explanation falls apart the moment I remember what the voice said.

What did it say?

My name.

That isn't impossible.

Not my name.

What do you mean?

It called me "Little Hawk."

(Quietly) Your father used to call you that.

Yes.

How many people knew?

None.

Someone must have.

No. It wasn't just the words. (Pause) It was the voice itself. For a moment it felt as though the months since his death had vanished. I was a child again. I could almost believe he was standing beside me.

Hamlet...

Don't.

Don't what?

Don't give me that look.

What look?

The one that says you've already decided I'm losing my mind.

I haven't decided that.

You don't believe me.

I believe that you miss your father.

That isn't the same thing.

Do you know what frightens me most about all of this? It's not the voice. It's not the garden. It's not even the possibility that something strange happened. It's you. Because I've known you for years, Hamlet. Whenever something captures your imagination, you throw yourself at it completely. You don't stop. You don't question yourself. You charge forward and trust that courage will solve everything. Most of the time it's inspiring. Sometimes it's infuriating. But this feels different. You're not chasing adventure. You're chasing the past. And people rarely return unchanged from journeys like that.

You make it sound as though I've already lost my mind.

No. I think you're grieving. And grief can be just as dangerous.

Do you know what the worst thing about grief is? Everyone thinks it gets smaller. It doesn't. You simply grow around it. Every morning I wake up and for a few seconds I forget he's gone. Then reality returns. And with it comes the same question. What if there was something he wanted me to know? What if everyone else knows more than they're willing to admit?

Everyone feels that after loss.

No. This feels different. People stop talking when I enter rooms. Servants exchange glances. Conversations end halfway through sentences. Something isn't right.

Or perhaps people are worried about you. Have you considered that? You carry your grief like a storm cloud. The moment you enter a room, people become careful because they don't know what to say.

You always have an explanation.

And you always have a mystery.

Because they're there.

Can I tell you something? Something I've never said before? There are moments when I envy you.

Envy me?

Yes. You feel everything so intensely. Your hope. Your anger. Your determination. When you care about something, the whole world knows it. I admire that. Because I'm not like that. I question everything. I hesitate. You leap. I analyse. You trust instinct. I trust evidence. Perhaps that's why we've remained friends all these years. Each of us carries what the other lacks.

Or perhaps we're both equally impossible.

That is also possible. (Both smile briefly.)

You don't understand.

Don't I? You aren't the only one who misses him. Everyone speaks as though he only belonged to you. But I knew him too. Not as a king. Not as a father. As a man. I remember standing in the courtyard one winter morning, terrified of making a mistake during a ceremony. My hands were shaking. Nobody noticed. Except him. He came over and spoke to me for less than a minute. By the time he walked away, I believed I could do anything. That was his gift. He made people stronger simply by believing in them. So don't tell me I don't understand what his absence feels like. I do. Perhaps not as deeply as you. But I do.

(Quietly) I didn't know that.

There are many things we never think to say until it's too late. (Pause)

Then tell me honestly. If you were me, what would you do?

Leave it alone.

Leave it alone?

Not because I think you're wrong. Because not every mystery deserves to be solved. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed again.

That's easy for you to say.

Why?

Because you're not the one living with the questions.

You know what's truly unfair? You ask for my opinion, but what you really want is my agreement. There's a difference. If I agree, I'm wise. If I disagree, I'm fearful and boring. Have you ever considered that caution isn't weakness? Sometimes caution is courage. Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is stop and think before taking another step.

You think I'm being foolish.

I think you're hurting. There's a difference. (Long pause.)

Perhaps. But if there is even the smallest chance that voice was real... How can I ignore it?

You can't.

No. I can't.

I thought not.

Will you come with me tonight?

To the garden?

Yes.

At midnight?

That's when it happened.

Of course it did.

It's the proper time for mysteries.

It's the proper time for sleeping.

Horatio.

Hamlet. (Long pause.)

Please.

You always do that.

Do what?

Make it impossible to refuse.

So you'll come?

Very well. I'll come. Not because I believe every word you've told me. Not because I think mysterious voices wandering through gardens are a reliable source of information. And certainly not because I enjoy standing outside at midnight in weather that could freeze a statue. I'll come because friendship is not tested when everything is easy. It's tested when someone you care about walks towards something that frightens you. And right now, Hamlet, I am frightened. Frightened that you're right. Frightened that you're wrong. Frightened that we're about to discover something neither of us is prepared for. But I'd rather face it beside you than hear about it afterwards.

You mean that?

Every word.

Thank you.

Don't thank me yet.

Why not?

Because if this turns out to be an owl, I shall remind you of it for the rest of your natural life.

And if it isn't?

(Serious) Then we're standing at the beginning of something neither of us understands.

Does that frighten you?

Very much.

Good.

Good?

Because it frightens me too.

Do you hear yourself? You talk about truth as though it's a treasure waiting to be discovered. As though once you find it, everything will suddenly make sense. But life doesn't work like that. Sometimes the truth creates more questions than answers. Sometimes it changes nothing. And sometimes it destroys the very things we were trying to protect. Yet despite every warning I've given you... Despite every instinct telling me to turn around and walk away... I'm still here. That must mean something. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps some questions follow us forever if we refuse to answer them. So if we're doing this... If we're truly doing this... Then let's stop talking about it. Let's go and find out what's waiting in that garden.

Together?

Together.

Midnight?

Midnight.

Bring a lantern.

Bring common sense.

I knew there was something I'd forgotten. (They exit.) END