— Simba, you have forgotten me.
— No. How could I?
— You have forgotten who you are, and so have forgotten me. Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the circle of life.
— How can I go back? I'm not who I used to be.
— Remember who you are. You are my son and the one true king. Remember who you are. Remember.
Every storm brings with it hope that somehow by morning, everything will be made clean again. And even the most troubling stains will have disappeared. Like the doubts over his innocence or the consequence of his mistake. Like the scars of his betrayal or the memory of his kiss. So we wait for the storm to pass hoping for the best even though we know in our hearts some stains are so indelible, nothing can wash them away.
She was so like you, so willful, so brave and gay and full of high spirits, and I could pet her and spoil her--just as I wanted to pet you. But she wasn't like you--she loved me. It was a blessing that I could take the love you didn't want and give it to her. . . . When she went, she took everything.