A king sat on a hill.

Not a magnificine hill, not one with riches or other wonders buried beneath. It was not very high either, more of a mound than a hill, really. But it was still his favorite. In all the land that he ruled, this little mound - or hill - of dirt was his favorite.

Not just his favorite hill, but his favorite spot of all.

Many had asked why. Countless, actually. And not a single one of them had ever been satisfied with the answer that they got. Not even his own son. But that did not trouble the king, for in fact, nothing troubled the king when he was on his hill.

Or was it a mound.

Either way, it was his favorite spot simply because it was his favorite spot.

There were no fancy streams or rivers nearby, there was no good view or particularly foundational memory associated. He just came here to this hill that was also a mound and sat down, and he enjoyed his time there.

And had kept enjoying his time there.

He wasn't too sure why that was not a satisfying answer, to like something simply because you liked it. Their confusion in response was equal parts amusing and similarly confusing to the king. He wondered how the rest of the people in the world got about choosing the things he liked.

The king could not help but wonder as he sat alone on his little mound in nowhere in particular, doing nothing in particular, if everybody else just led far more monumental lives than he had.

Maybe every single one of their favorite places or most liked things had some sort of equally monumental moment or reason attached to it. The entire idea seemed exhausting to him, and he was king so he liked to think that said something about the energy required for such a task.

But these were thoughts for another day, or another time. Or perhaps for never at all. Because he was too busy sitting on his little hill, that was also a mound, happy doing nothing in particular in nowhere in particular.

In his favorite place.