The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air as flashing cameras gathered outside St. Mary’s Hospital. Inside, the atmosphere was heavy, laced with fear and sorrow. Prince Harry sat slumped in a chair, his hands covering his face, tears slipping silently through his fingers. The weight of the doctor’s words hung in the room like a dark cloud: a prognosis so severe it shook the very foundations of the royal brothers’ bond. When William arrived, his footsteps echoed down the corridor.

He pushed open the door, and the sight of his younger brother in despair struck him like a blow. Without hesitation, William rushed forward, kneeling beside Harry, his arm wrapping firmly around his shoulders. “What did they say?” William asked in a hushed tone, his voice trembling. Harry looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his lips quivering. “They… they asked me if I’d soon be reunited with Mum,”

Harry stammered, choking on the words. The room fell silent, only the faint beeping of medical machines filling the void. For a brief moment, both brothers seemed transported back to their childhood—the night they lost their mother, the ache of grief that never left. And now, the thought of facing that same darkness again was unbearable. William’s jaw tightened, his own heart breaking, but he refused to crumble. “You’re not going anywhere,” he whispered fiercely, gripping Harry’s hand.

“Not yet. Not like this. We’ve fought through everything together, and we’ll fight through this too.” Outside, the world speculated, fearing the worst. Inside, the brothers clung to each other as if the force of their bond alone could rewrite fate. For William, there was no throne, no crown—only his brother, and the desperate hope that this was not the moment history would repeat itself.