“My name is Snow White,” said the pale-skinned young woman, her foreign accent soft but confident. “I am the king’s daughter, with kindness, singing, and knowledge of herbs.”
“And I am His Majesty. My kiss once saved the world,” added the young man in a hospital gown, holding a plastic cup of jelly as though it were a scepter.
The doctors merely shrugged:
“Psychosis?”
“No… just old fairy tales.”
“And no insurance coverage.”
Upon discharge, they stood on the clinic’s edge, clutching a box. Inside was one robe, two pairs of slippers, a pamphlet: “Start Over in the USA”, and a sheet of questions: “Education? Skills?”
A Burger Palace manager asked, “Can you work a cashier?”
Snow White answered hopefully, “No, but I can talk to deer.”
“And you?” he asked the “King.”
“I can inspire people, issue decrees, and fight for justice.”
“Great. Grab the mop — start with the restrooms.”
And so, their lives changed.
Their New Reality
— The “King” began washing floors with dignity and nearly royal grace.
— Snow White — now wearing a hairnet — washed dishes while softly singing to pots instead of birds.
She would tell the staff’s children:
“Even if you’re born in a castle, without skills you’re still in a burger joint. But with a kind heart, you can live with dignity.”
They shared a modest apartment — no throne, but with a microwave and a stained sofa no one could clean. Sometimes they gazed at the stars.
“Maybe it’s a spell,” Snow White mused. “Or just life.”
The King nodded: “In a world that doesn’t believe in kings, you just have to be a good human.”
Fairytales aren’t dead. They just take off their crowns and go for job interviews.
Sometimes with a wet mop. Sometimes with a smile.
The King’s morning routine: He was called “Bob” at work and began each day with a bucket center-stage in the restroom.
“It’s not a throne, but it’s an elevation,” he joked, composing rhymes for the cleaning supplies:
“For Glory, Cleanliness, and Shine! May Mold and Grease fall to the power of Mr. Bleach!”
Even the manager couldn’t help but laugh.
Snow White — now “Snezhi” — treated dishes like priceless mirrors:
“Each plate is a mirror of fate — if it doesn’t shine, don’t look in it.”
One day she caught a rat in the kitchen — but instead of killing it, she fed it.
“That’s not a rat. It’s a forgotten fairy. It’s just cold.”
Soon the staff began dropping crumbs “for luck.” Magical creatures appeared in corners.
On weekends, they studied at the library: Snezhi learning English, the King deciphering tax forms.
King (grimacing): “What kind of monster is this tax paper? Where’s its heart so I can stab it?”
One evening, a sad little boy entered the restaurant, waiting for his mom’s shift to end. The King sat him on an onion crate and told him a story about a dragon who could cry. Snezhi gave the boy an orange.
“Inside it is sunshine. Eating it warms you from within.”
There began their quiet magic:
— Fairytales for the weary.
— Smiles for the lost.
— Strength to survive where there are no castles.
Though still a cleaner, the King now knew every employee’s child by name and made tin-foil crowns for them.
“Never forget,” he would say, “even if you’re mopping floors, you can be a king in someone’s heart.”
A world may not always be magical — but you can be magical within it.
Even with a rag. Even in rubber gloves.
They rented a small house on the edge of town — hat-box mailbox shaped like a mushroom, curtains patterned with daisies. In the yard grew a bush Snow White called the “raspberry throne,” while the King called it the “cold jungle.” They had an old kettle, two robes, a rubber duck, and — most importantly — love.
Love that soothed souls after long shifts and warmed hearts with homemade soup.
Every Sunday they walked in the park. Snow White scattered crumbs for pigeons (the “magic messengers”), and the King fed squirrels with royal flair. Holding hands, they looked as if spring could still come.
“Love and labor,” she said, “can grind anything down.”
“Especially with a good sauce,” he added.
At work, no one found them peculiar anymore. Snezhi became shift supervisor. The King was officially the “morale and safety officer” (a cleaner with mic privileges).
One evening, Jeff — a tall colleague with piercings — said:
“You two look like you’ve been in theater all your lives.”
“Maybe I haven’t left it,” Snow White smiled.
“And I’m still waiting for my ovation,” added the King.
Then they were invited to a local cultural center:
“Open auditions. The theater seeks new faces.”
“And hearts,” Jeff added. “You’ve got two — crowns inside.”
That evening, they sat by the window — on the table: a toaster and tea; on the sill: socks drying in moonlight.
“What if nobody believes us?” Snow White asked.
“Then we’ll act so they will,” replied the King.
“And what if we fail?”
“Then we’ll go home. I’ll mop the floor, you’ll cook dinner. Still a win.”
They left.
On Tuesday — audition day.
He wore a thrift-store blazer; she wore a donated dress, dressed up with one small, old ribbon — still magical. She sang simply about love and birds. He recited a monologue from his own life — about keeping self-worth even while scrubbing toilets.
The jury was silent — then applauded. One said:
“You reminded us why theater exists.”
The fairytale had never ended.
It had simply taken off its apron,
opened its heart,
and stepped onto the stage.
But they never forgot Burger Palace.
“It was our first stage,” the King laughed.
“And our first audience — were mice.”
