What If Saito Hitori Was Hamlet? A Comedy of Healing & Laughter

When Shakespeare wrote Hamlet, he captured the heaviness of grief, the bitterness of betrayal, and the tragic spiral of revenge. It’s a story that has haunted audiences for centuries precisely because it touches the rawest parts of the human heart. But what if the same story were told with a different energy—not the energy of despair, but of laughter and forgiveness?

That’s where Saito Hitori enters the stage. Known in Japan as a businessman-philosopher with a gift for turning life’s struggles into jokes that heal, Hitori has an uncanny ability to find sunlight where others only see storm. If Hamlet, the prince of Denmark, were infused with Hitori’s spirit, the play would take a radical turn. The ghost would not demand vengeance—it would offer wisdom. Ophelia would not drown in despair—she would rise in joy. And Claudius, rather than dying in sin, might confess and learn to grow apples instead of guilt.

This reimagining is not just about rewriting a tragedy into a comedy. It is about asking: what happens when we replace anger with gratitude, fear with laughter, and revenge with forgiveness? The answer is not merely a “happy ending” but a deeper transformation.

So tonight, the stage is reset. The ramparts of Elsinore are still cold, the ghost still wanders, and sorrow still lingers. But standing in Hamlet’s shoes is Saito Hitori, who greets grief with a smile and carries a pocket full of jokes sharper than any sword. What unfolds is a story Shakespeare may never have imagined, but one that our world, weary with conflict, desperately needs to hear.

(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Act I — The Ghost and the Joke

The moon hung above Elsinore like a pale coin you could spend only once. Guards whispered about omens and footsteps that didn’t belong to the living. Then the prince arrived—not the brooding Hamlet of rumor, but Prince Hitori, cloak swinging, eyes bright, a smile soft as candlelight.

“Good evening!” he called, as if greeting old friends at a shop door. “Anyone need a warm word? Words are free tonight.”

Horatio blinked. “My lord… there’s something you must see. A figure—looks like your father.”

“Ah,” Hitori said gently, “then we will bow twice: once for the love we still feel, and once for the lesson we’re about to learn.”

They waited. The air cooled. From the ramparts came the sound of armor that should have been resting in the vault. The Ghost of King Hamlet stepped forth—tall, unblinking, a lantern lit inside his wounded chest.

“Son,” the ghost intoned, “I was murdered. Poison in my ear. Claudius—”

Hitori lifted a palm, sincere yet playful. “Father, before the storm, a little sunshine. I’m happy to see you. And thank you for coming all this way. Must be a long commute from the spirit world.”

The ghost paused, startled by the warmth. “You… thank me?”

“In our house,” Hitori said, “we say ‘arigatō’ first. Gratitude is a key—many doors open when you hold one.”

Horatio’s jaw dropped. The guards exchanged looks. The ghost’s lantern-heart steadied.

“I came for vengeance,” the ghost said, a little softer. “Will you avenge me?”

Hitori stepped closer, studying the old king’s face. “Father, if you’ve come to dump your anger on me, I’ll start sinking with you. But if you’ve come to hand me a light, I’ll carry it.”

“The light,” the ghost echoed.

“Yes,” Hitori said. “Please tell me the lesson of your life. What did you love most? What made your heart stand up straight?”

The ghost’s voice hollowed, then deepened with remembrance. “I loved the mornings I forgot I was king and remembered I was a man. Bread fresh from the oven. Your mother’s laughter. The first time you held a wooden sword and bowed to the sun.”

“Beautiful,” Hitori whispered. “Let’s keep that alive.”

“But there is still murder,” the ghost insisted, duty tugging at him. “Your uncle—”

“May or may not be guilty,” Hitori said. “Either way, the poison in your ear has become poison in our family’s heart. If I pour more poison—revenge—we’ll all fall over. Better to draw it out.”

“By forgiveness?” Horatio blurted, incredulous.

“By truth first,” Hitori replied, “and forgiveness no matter what we find. Truth cleans the wound; forgiveness closes it.”

The ghost studied his son, bewildered as if the afterlife had changed the rules. “What will you do?”

“I’ll listen,” Hitori said. “I’ll watch. I’ll speak Heavenly Words—Tengoku Kotoba—everywhere I go. ‘Thank you. I’m happy. I love you. I forgive you.’ We’ll see who heals, and who resists healing.”

“Isn’t that too soft?” a guard muttered.

Hitori chuckled. “Soft water carves stone.”

The ghost’s lantern-heart flickered. “If you choose this path, remember your name.”

“I remember,” Hitori said, bowing. “I’m your son, and I’m my mother’s joy. I’m the prince—not of sorrow, but of smiles. Go rest, Father. I’ll keep your mornings alive.”

The ghost’s armor unclasped like a sigh. “Then let me leave you one more gift. When you speak with love, you will see what hatred hides.” He lifted his hand, and a light touched Hitori’s brow—no sting, only clarity. “Farewell, my son.”

Mist took the old king. The ramparts warmed by a degree.

Horatio found his voice. “You’re not going to duel madness against madness?”

“Madness is expensive,” Hitori said. “Joy is cheaper and pays interest.”

They descended from the tower. As they crossed the courtyard, a servant rushed out, panicked. “My lord, the queen requests you. The king too.”

“Wonderful,” Hitori said, and the servant blinked—no dread, only cheer. “Tell them I’m bringing the weather.”

“The… weather, my lord?”

“Sunshine,” Hitori winked.

The hall of Elsinore gleamed with the polished fear of courtiers. King Claudius sat upright, fingers laced, performing ease. Queen Gertrude watched the door like a mother watches the horizon.

Hitori entered without the heavy costume of melancholy. He bowed to them both. “Mother. Uncle.”

“Son,” Claudius said, smooth as poured wine. “We hoped you’d shrugged off that black coat. Death is common, after all.”

“Common,” Hitori nodded. “And precious. A reminder to live lightly and love quickly. I’ve traded the black coat for a bright one—on the inside.”

A ripple went through the room—unpredictability is the most alarming form of courage.

Gertrude rose, relief brightening her face. “You’re well?”

“Better,” Hitori said. “I spoke with the night and it spoke back. It said, ‘Lift the house with laughter. Then dust will fall where the cracks are.’ So I’ll be hosting something soon. A play, a party—a play-party.”

Claudius narrowed his eyes. “A play?”

“Yes,” Hitori said lightly. “About a king who sleeps badly because he forgot to say sorry.” He grinned, then turned to the queen. “Mother, I’d love your help choosing the cakes. People tell the truth more easily when their mouths are happy.”

Gertrude’s smile surprised even herself. “We shall have honey cakes.”

“Perfect,” Hitori said. “Honey remembers the flower.”

Polonius popped from a pillar like a bookmark. “My lord, a word or twenty. I’ve noted certain changes, and I conclude—scientifically—that your condition is love. You are in love with my daughter. Diagnosis complete.”

Hitori bowed. “Sir Polonius, if you ever retire from counsel, please open a bakery. Your conclusions rise like good bread.”

Polonius frowned, uncertain if flattered. “Will you see Ophelia?”

“Gladly,” Hitori said. “With your blessing, I’ll speak to her not as medicine, but as music.”

“Medicine?” Claudius repeated, feigning idle curiosity.

“Many men talk to women like doctors,” Hitori said, “poking the bruise to prove they know where it is. I prefer to make the sky bluer.”

The king offered a dry smile. “Do make it bluer for us all.”

“I plan to,” Hitori said, and his eyes, kind and clear, met Claudius’s long enough to register the flinch that crossed the king’s face before it hid behind etiquette.

Ophelia waited in the garden where the roses argued about being roses. She twisted a ribbon between her fingers, aiming to look untroubled and achieving the opposite.

Hitori approached, slower than worry and faster than winter. “Ophelia.”

She looked up. “My lord.” Her voice carried the gentleness of someone who apologizes to furniture when she bumps into it.

“I wish you’d call me by my first name,” he said. “Titles are heavy. I’m trying to travel light.”

“Is it permitted?” she asked, cautious but curious.

“In my kingdom—today’s kingdom—it is.”

“…Hitori,” she said, testing a new note.

He smiled. “Perfect pitch.”

She smiled back, involuntary, like a curtain catching a warm draft. Then her eyes clouded. “Everyone is tense. The court talks in riddles. My father weighs my words on a scale. Laertes writes me rules from Paris. And you—” She stopped, afraid of the sentence.

“And I?” Hitori prompted, friendly as a handrail.

“You were drowning,” she whispered. “In grief. I tried to throw a rope. It felt like it wrapped around me instead.”

Hitori sat on the low wall beside her. He took a cherry blossom petal from the path and balanced it on his fingertip. “If I speak heavy words, they land on your heart. If I speak heavenly words, they land like this.” He blew gently; the petal lifted, hovered, and set down on her sleeve. “See? Same world, different weight.”

Ophelia blinked. “How do you do that?”

“I choose my weather,” he said. “I wake up and decide it will be sunny in my chest. Sometimes the sky disagrees, but I’m stubborn.”

She laughed, small and real. “That sounds… impossible.”

“Most good habits do, five minutes before they start working.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “I’d like to make a compact with you. Three things. First: each morning, before anyone tells us who we are, we say three bright truths out loud.”

“What truths?”

“Your choice. ‘Thank you.’ ‘I’m loved.’ ‘I can love.’ Or ‘I like bread.’ Simple is strong. Second: once a day, we laugh for no reason. Not at anyone—just air-laugh. It clears the mind like opening a window.”

Ophelia’s eyes widened. “Laugh for no reason? People will think I’m mad.”

“They already do. Free ticket.” He winked. “Third: when fears come, we greet them like shy guests. ‘Welcome, fear. Have some tea. I’m busy being happy, but you can sit.’ Fear hates tea. It leaves.”

Ophelia covered her mouth, giggling, and a little of the haunted gray left her face. “Can… can we start now?”

“We already did,” Hitori said. “You laughed.”

She looked at him as if a bird had landed on her shoulder and agreed to stay. “I was afraid you’d push me away for politics and ghosts.”

“Ghosts visited,” he said softly. “They asked for revenge. I asked for meaning. We compromised—truth with a smile.”

“Is that allowed?”

“It is now.”

Polonius peered from behind a hedge, bewildered that the conversation wasn’t a chessboard he could map. He scribbled something like, Laughter: suspicious.

Hitori stood and offered Ophelia his hand. “Walk with me. We’ll plan a play-party. I need a scene about a king who forgets to say ‘I’m sorry’ and remembers in time to bake cakes.”

“Cakes?” she said, rising with him.

“Truth is easier with crumbs on the table.”

They strolled beneath an arch of vines, and for ten steps the castle forgot its grudges.

That evening, Hitori found his mother in the gallery, turning a ring she had worn too soon. He stood beside her in silence until silence was comfortable.

“Your eyes are different,” Gertrude said at last.

“I cleaned the window,” he answered.

“Your uncle worries you plan to mock him in public,” she said carefully.

“I plan to heal him in public,” Hitori said. “Mockery rarely heals. Laughter often does.”

“Will you be safe?” Her voice betrayed how many times safety had arrived late.

“Safer than when I was angry,” he said. “Anger throws knives in the dark and hopes they miss the kitchen staff.”

Gertrude snorted—a small, exhausted laugh she hadn’t allowed herself since the funeral. “You sound like your father when he wanted peace.”

“I sound like your son when he wants you to sleep,” Hitori replied, and she smiled the first true smile of her widowhood.

As he left the gallery, he passed Claudius in the doorway. The king’s face was a mask carved by a careful knife.

“Nephew,” Claudius said, too pleasant. “I hear you’re entertaining us.”

“I’m trying to,” Hitori said brightly. “The kingdom is grieving. Laughter is the stretcher that gets us to the clinic.”

Claudius’s eyes flickered. “And who is the patient?”

“Whoever shows up,” Hitori said, and for a heartbeat the king’s breath stalled—as if he felt hands pressing gently, unignorably, against a bruise.

Hitori bowed and moved on, humming something like morning.

Behind him, Claudius stood very still, as if the castle had tilted and he was making sure his guilt didn’t roll into view.

That night, alone in his chamber, Hitori lit a small lamp and whispered to the ceiling, “Father, I’m choosing joy. If I’m wrong, make the joke land anyway.”

The flame steadied, a tiny sun with a simple assignment.

From the courtyard rose the sounds of carpenters building a stage and cooks testing honey. Somewhere in the garden, a girl laughed for no reason and then for a very good one.

And in a private room, a king stared into a mirror and heard, for the first time, how loud silence can get when a play is being built just outside your door.

The curtain of Act I does not fall; it floats—because the night is not done and morning has an invitation list.

Act II — Healing Ophelia’s Heart

The courtyard of Elsinore was blooming in ways no gardener could explain. Servants whispered that ever since Prince Hitori began his “play-party preparations,” the air had shifted. The shadows still clung to the stone, but laughter occasionally broke through, like sunlight sneaking into a cellar.

And at the center of this strange spring was Ophelia, carrying a basket of flowers.

She paused at the fountain, plucking petals from a daisy. “He loves me, he loves me not…” Her voice wavered between hope and despair.

A sudden clap! behind her startled the petals from her fingers.

“Always pick he loves me,” Hitori said, grinning. “That way you save time. Petals are precious; don’t waste them on doubt.”

Ophelia turned, torn between a smile and reproach. “You make light of everything.”

“That’s because heavy things fall,” Hitori replied. “Better to make them float.”

She tried not to laugh, but her lips betrayed her. Then the old ache returned, quick as thunder. “Still, my lord… this court is full of suspicion. My father spies. My brother lectures. Everyone treats me like a pawn. I’m… I’m tired.”

Hitori set the basket down and sat beside her on the fountain’s edge. His tone softened, losing none of its brightness.

“You know what pawns forget?” he asked.

“What?”

“They reach the other side of the board and turn into queens.”

Ophelia blinked, the metaphor landing like a gift. “Queens?”

“Yes. Stronger than knights, faster than bishops, even scarier than kings.” He leaned closer. “You’ve got more power than they admit. They just don’t want you to remember.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “But sometimes my own mind… it feels like it turns against me.”

Hitori nodded, serious now. “That’s what minds do. They play ghost stories when there’s no ghost. Here’s a trick. When dark thoughts come, don’t fight them. Invite them to tea. Say, ‘Sit down, fear. Sugar or milk? I’ll laugh while you sip.’ Fear doesn’t like polite company. It leaves.”

Ophelia giggled through her tears. “You make even sorrow sound… silly.”

“Exactly. Sorrow hates being laughed at. So let’s laugh before it grows taller.”

He stood suddenly and stretched his arms wide. “Come, walk with me. I’ll show you how to cure melancholy with nonsense.”

They wandered to the rehearsal stage where actors hammered scenery. The carpenters groaned under the prince’s eccentric directions: “Paint the walls with sunshine! No skulls—only smiles!”

Hitori picked up a prop lute and strummed a crooked chord. “First lesson: sing badly on purpose. Nobody can stay sad when they hear a disaster in music.”

He sang in a mock-serious tone:

“Ohhh, my shoe is full of soup,
And my crown is just a hoop…”

Ophelia burst out laughing, clapping her hands over her mouth.

“See?” Hitori said. “Better than medicine. And no side effects except neighbors thinking you’re fun.”

The actors joined in, improvising ridiculous verses about crooked crowns, leaky goblets, and kings who tripped on rugs. The courtyard filled with unpolished harmony. Even the guards chuckled, though they tried to hide it behind their spears.

Ophelia’s face brightened with each note, her shoulders lighter than when she’d entered. She sat cross-legged on the stage, laughter shaking her like wind in a blossom.

Polonius appeared, scandalized. “What is this racket? My lord, you make a mockery of dignity!”

“Father,” Ophelia said boldly, cheeks glowing with joy, “it feels wonderful.”

Polonius gaped. “Wonderful? You sound possessed!”

“She’s possessed by happiness,” Hitori said. “Best spirit I know.”

Polonius sputtered, retreating with mutters about ruined propriety. But as he left, he noticed something troubling: his daughter looked alive again. Alive in a way his rules had never managed.

Later, under the willow tree by the river, Hitori and Ophelia sat with their feet dangling just above the water. The twilight air hummed with insects, but the silence between them was peaceful.

“You saved me today,” Ophelia said softly. “I didn’t know I could laugh like that again.”

“You always could,” Hitori answered. “Sometimes we just forget where the switch is. I like helping people find it.”

“But the others won’t understand,” she said. “If I’m cheerful while the kingdom grieves, they’ll call me foolish.”

“Fools are free,” Hitori said. “They get to speak truth wrapped in laughter. Kings get jealous of that.”

She tilted her head. “You think I could be… like that?”

“You already are,” he said. “You just need practice. Start with small things: hum while you sew, smile at the servants, laugh at my terrible singing. Soon the whole castle will feel lighter, and they won’t even know why.”

Ophelia’s eyes shimmered in the dusk. “And you?”

“Me? I’ll be the loudest fool of all,” he said, chuckling. “The kingdom thinks I’m plotting revenge. But my real plan is sillier: to save everyone with joy.”

“Even the king?” she asked, voice dropping.

“Especially the king. People do cruel things when they’re starving for peace inside. Maybe I can feed him some.”

Ophelia shook her head in wonder. “You turn everything upside down.”

“No,” Hitori corrected gently. “I just turn it right side up.”

She laughed again, and this time it was music without sorrow.

The night of the rehearsal feast arrived. Servants carried trays of honey cakes and roasted apples. Musicians tuned their lutes with suspiciously cheerful chords. Nobles gathered, confused but intrigued by the prince’s new “festival.”

Hitori walked among them like a lantern on legs, spreading warmth with jokes and blessings. “Eat! Laugh! Today is free of revenge. Payment accepted only in smiles.”

Ophelia, radiant in a simple gown adorned with flowers from her basket, moved among the guests handing out garlands. People accepted them reluctantly at first, then with shy smiles. The room softened.

Claudius sat stiff on the throne, watching this transformation with unease. His plan had relied on a grieving, unstable nephew—not this buoyant sage who disarmed sorrow with laughter. He leaned to Gertrude. “The boy is dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” she murmured, eyes bright. “He makes me feel alive again.”

The play began. Instead of the grim tragedy Claudius feared, it was a comedy about a foolish king who forgot to apologize until his cook tricked him with burnt stew. The audience roared with laughter. Only Claudius sat pale, hearing every line as if it mocked his hidden crime.

Hitori noticed, but he didn’t gloat. He smiled gently at his uncle and bowed, as if offering him a chance at healing too. Claudius turned away, shaken.

Ophelia, watching, felt her heart steady. The man she loved was not drowning anymore. He was teaching others to swim.

When the feast ended, Hitori and Ophelia stood under the torchlit archway.

“You’ve given me back my laughter,” she whispered.

“And you’ve given me back my courage,” he replied.

They clasped hands, not as fragile lovers caught in tragedy, but as partners in a conspiracy of joy.

Above them, the moon climbed higher, brighter, as if approving.

The kingdom had no idea yet, but the seeds of a new ending had been planted: not death and despair, but love, forgiveness, and laughter.

And Ophelia, once destined to sink beneath the water, now carried within her the buoyancy of a queen.

The curtain of Act II rises instead of falling—because the story is climbing toward a brighter summit.

Act III — The Kingdom of Smiles

Dawn crept over Elsinore as if the sky were practicing a smile. Carpenters dusted floury sawdust from their sleeves, the stage was set, and honey cakes cooled on windowsills like little moons. Prince Hitori stood at the balcony, palms together, whispering a thank-you to the morning.

“Father,” he said softly to the light, “if today goes well, it will be because you taught me how to greet a day like a guest. If it goes poorly, I’ll invite it again tomorrow.”

A breeze moved, quiet as approval.

Below, the courtyard filled with people. Nobles, soldiers, servants, and merchants pressed shoulder to shoulder—curious, wary, strangely hopeful. Ophelia moved through them with her flowers, crowning foreheads with color. Gertrude watched from the dais, a steadiness in her face that no one had seen since the funeral. Claudius sat beside her, composed, but his composure held sweat.

Hitori stepped forward. “Friends,” he said, voice clear, “today is Mirror Day. We will hold up laughter like a mirror and see what’s hiding behind our frowns. Three promises, if you’ll lend them: Tell truth gently. Forgive fully. Fix quickly.”

Murmurs. Some nods. A few smirks. Then Hitori added, “And eat cake. Remedies work best with crumbs.”

Ophelia stifled a laugh; it escaped anyway.

Trumpets sounded from the gate. Laertes strode in, boots hot with old anger, a sword at his hip and letters from Paris crumpled in his hand. He looked at his sister, then at Hitori.

“So the rumors are true,” he said, voice hard. “You make festivals where there should be mourning.”

Hitori bowed. “Welcome home, Laertes. We’re mourning badly, so we’re trying joy.”

Laertes flicked his eyes to Ophelia—radiant, alive. The picture didn’t match the letters he’d received. Disoriented, he gripped the hilt of his sword. “If you’ve hurt her—”

“Let’s test it,” Hitori said, stepping down from the dais. “A duel—but not with steel. With compliments. First to land three wins. If you prefer blades afterward, we can discuss bad ideas then.”

A ripple of laughter. Laertes scowled, but pride wouldn’t let him refuse a public challenge. “Three? Fine. I begin. You… dress less like a mourner. Your coat suits you.”

The crowd tittered. Hitori nodded solemnly. “Point to Laertes. My turn. You traveled far to defend your sister—that’s love wearing boots.”

Laertes blinked. “One-all,” he muttered, surprised to feel the words soften his chest.

“Second,” he continued, trying to regain edge. “You… keep the court’s attention. Even my anger must stand in line.”

“Generous,” Hitori said. “Two-one. Mine: You are honest with your anger. Many people hide theirs and call it politics.”

Laertes’ jaw tightened—and then loosened. Two-two.

“Last,” he said, voice lower. “You made Ophelia laugh.”

“Last,” Hitori echoed, turning to Ophelia with a little bow. “You came home, brother.”

Silence, then cheers. Laertes’ shoulders fell, the sword at his hip feeling suddenly ridiculous.

He sheathed it with a rueful exhale. “Your game is infuriating.”

“Thank you,” Hitori said, grinning. “Infuriating games are the best at cleaning wounds.”

Laertes moved to Ophelia, shame and relief mixing. “Sister… I sent you rules from Paris. You needed a hand, not a leash.”

Ophelia smiled, placing a garland on his head. “Queens forgive slowly and thoroughly. Lucky for you, I’m still practicing.”

Laughter, warmer now. A violin found a whimsical tune. The play began.

Unlike tradition, Act One of Hitori’s comedy started with a confession—his own. He stepped to center stage, faced the crowd, and bowed. “I was angry,” he said. “So angry I made thunder with my thoughts. I wanted to break what I loved to punish what I hated. When I did, my joy got colds. Today I choose a different medicine: truth with honey.”

He turned and gestured; actors tumbled into a scene where a king forgot to say “I’m sorry,” and his cook taught him humility by serving honesty disguised as burnt stew. The audience roared. But beneath the laughter, something sober gathered—like rain deciding if it wants to fall.

Claudius watched, stiffening. His eyes darted from the stage to Hitori, to Gertrude, to the door. His fingers made a small, unconscious claw on the armrest.

Between scenes, Hitori announced an interlude. “Open floor,” he said. “Confessions for courage, not for punishment. I’ll start.” He lifted a hand. “I have judged people faster than I ask their names. Sorry.”

An old scullery maid raised her hand. “I once swapped sugar for salt to make the steward stop calling me ‘girl’ at fifty. Sorry… not sorry? No, sorry.”

Laughter broke the tension. A guard admitted he’d exaggerated battlefield stories to feel big; a merchant confessed to shorting measures once in a famine; Polonius, grimacing, admitted he’d listened at doors more than he listened to hearts. “I will… recalibrate,” he managed, to general amusement.

The room was loosening—except for one man. Claudius stood abruptly and left, excuse stuck somewhere between his throat and the doorframe.

Gertrude rose to follow, but Hitori touched her arm gently. “Let me,” he whispered.

He found Claudius in the chapel, where sunlight fell through stained glass and made colored wounds on the floor.

“Praying?” Hitori asked softly.

“Hiding,” Claudius said, not turning.

Hitori nodded. “I used to hide in heavy thoughts. People thought I was deep. I was mostly drowning.”

Claudius stared at the altar. “You know.”

“I know enough to say this: your heart is a house with a bad tenant. It can evict him. But only if the landlord signs his name to the truth.”

Claudius swallowed. “If I confess, I lose everything.”

“You lost everything the day you drank that thought and called it courage,” Hitori said, not unkindly. “Confession doesn’t take your life. It gives it back—piece by piece, job by job. Not cheaply. Never cheaply.”

Claudius’ breath hitched. “What would you do with me?”

“Tell the truth to the court,” Hitori said. “Step down. Work where life grows. Learn to repair the thing you broke. I recommend orchards. Trees forgive slowly; they teach patience.”

Claudius let out a bitter laugh that surprised itself. “Orchards.”

“You can also choose silence,” Hitori added. “But silence will chew you. Choose the pain that heals.”

Claudius pressed a hand to his chest as if a fist inside had unclenched. He turned, face naked and older than his years. “I killed my brother.”

The chapel didn’t fall; it inhaled.

Hitori nodded once, as if checking a line off a list the sky had written. “Come say it to everyone.”

They returned to the hall, where the play had paused on the edge of a joke. Claudius walked to the dais like a man carrying his own scaffolding.

“My people,” he said, voice hoarse. “I took your king from you. I took a husband from my queen. I took a father from my nephew. I ask no mercy. I ask for the right to repair what can be repaired.”

Shock rippled, then the low moan of collective grief. Gertrude closed her eyes; when she opened them, something steady stood there. “The law will speak,” she said, voice clear. “But I will too. I choose truth over a throne built on lies.”

Eyes turned to Hitori. He lifted his hand for quiet. “We’ll have justice,” he said. “Not the kind that drops a hammer and sleeps well, but the kind that wakes up early to build. Claudius will step down. He will give back what wealth wasn’t his to keep. He will work among the orchards and the widows and the fatherless, for as many seasons as it takes to grow a different man.”

A murmur—confusion, then comprehension. Justice that looked like work, not theater.

“And me?” Hitori continued. “I’ll postpone any crown until I know how to carry it with laughter. Mother, be regent. I’ll be the kingdom’s student. There’s much to learn.”

Gertrude laughed through tears. “At last—sense in Elsinore.”

A sudden coolness moved through the hall. From the edge of the crowd, a lantern glow rose. The Ghost of King Hamlet appeared—not armored now, but wrapped in something that looked like morning.

He looked at Claudius, and Claudius shook. Then the ghost turned to Hitori.

“I asked for vengeance,” the ghost said, voice like wind off a clean sea. “You gave me rest. The debt is settled where it matters.”

Hitori bowed. “We’re learning to pay in kindness.”

The ghost smiled—a small, impossible thing—and faded like breath leaving a mirror that will not fog again.

The hall exhaled. Ophelia stepped forward with a tray. “Tea?” she asked brightly. “We call this blend ‘For Fears and Other Guests.’ It pairs well with apologies.”

Polonius, humbled, took a cup and whispered to her, “I will try listening first.”

“Good,” she said. “It’s quieter when you listen.”

Trumpets again—this time at the gate, urgent. A captain hurried in. “Fortinbras approaches with his army. He’s expecting a mess and brought brooms made of spears.”

Hitori laughed. “Perfect timing. Invite him in.”

Moments later, Fortinbras entered in full armor, expecting smoke and blood. Instead, he found honey cakes and a king confessing to orchards. He frowned, consulting a mental map that offered no legends for such a scene.

“Prince Hitori,” he said carefully, “I came to… stabilize the region.”

“Wonderful,” Hitori said. “Stability tastes best when shared. Would you like a treaty? We’ll compete in bridges built, not borders bent.”

Fortinbras hesitated. A guard offered him cake. He accepted, bit, and blinked. “What… what is in this?”

“Truth,” Hitori said. “And honey.”

Fortinbras looked around at the strange glow of a court that had just survived its own honesty. Slowly, he removed his helmet. “Very well. We will set our spears against fruit trees and see who grows more in a year.”

Applause. Laughter. The musicians, unable to help themselves, burst into a bright tune. People danced—awkwardly at first, then with the relief of a long-held breath released.

Claudius, eyes wet and unarmored, handed his signet ring to the chancellor. “For the orchards,” he said, and for once it sounded like a promise that knew how much it owed.

Hitori stepped beside Gertrude and Ophelia. Laertes joined them, crown of flowers askew, grin unpracticed but sincere.

“What will you call this day?” a child shouted from the crowd.

Hitori thought. “The Day of Honey Cakes and Truth,” he said. “We’ll keep it each year. We’ll confess small things before they become large ones. We’ll forgive before bitterness grows teeth.”

Ophelia slipped her hand into his. “And we’ll laugh for no reason—at least once.”

“Especially then,” Hitori said.

He turned to the people. “Remember the three promises?”

They shouted them back, louder than trumpets: “Tell truth gently! Forgive fully! Fix quickly!”

“Perfect,” Hitori said, eyes bright. “Keep them, and even tragedy will have to find another job.”

The curtain does not fall. It lifts into morning, and the kingdom walks forward under a sky that has learned, at last, how to smile.

Final Thoughts By Nick Sasaki

As the curtains draw on this reimagined tale, what lingers is not the sound of swords clashing or the weight of bodies strewn across the stage, but the echo of laughter filling a royal hall. Honey cakes replaced poison. Confession replaced concealment. A flower crown replaced a funeral wreath.

Saito Hitori’s Hamlet reminds us that tragedy is not the only script available to us. At every moment, we are offered a choice: to repeat the patterns of pain or to surprise the world with kindness. Forgiveness, as Hitori shows, is not weakness but the strongest act of rebellion against despair.

And perhaps that is why this version of Hamlet matters now. We live in a time when many feel poisoned by resentment, weighed down by inherited grief, or tempted to strike back at those who wrong us. But what if, instead, we bowed to the ghosts of our past with gratitude? What if we laughed—not to escape life’s sorrows, but to loosen their grip? What if we built kingdoms not on revenge, but on smiles?

Shakespeare gave us a mirror to our darkest selves. Saito Hitori gives us a lantern toward our brightest. Both are true, but tonight, we leave the theater carrying the lantern.

So may we go forward like Hamlet-Hitori—smiling in the face of ghosts, singing through sorrow, and choosing joy not because it is easy, but because it is the one ending that makes life worth living.

Short Bios:

Saito Hitori — Japan’s most successful businessman-philosopher, known for blending humor, spirituality, and practical wisdom. He teaches that gratitude, laughter, and lightheartedness can transform life’s hardships into joy.

William Shakespeare — The world’s most celebrated playwright and poet, author of Hamlet, whose timeless works capture the depths of human struggle, love, and imagination.

Ophelia (Hamlet’s Beloved) — A tragic figure in Shakespeare’s play, reimagined here as a young woman whose laughter and resilience are awakened by Hitori’s compassion and playfulness.

Claudius (Hamlet’s Uncle) — The usurping king of Denmark. In this retelling, his guilt transforms into confession, leading him not to a poisoned chalice, but to redemption through honesty and humility.

Gertrude (Hamlet’s Mother) — Queen of Denmark, caught between love and politics. Here, she finds relief in Hitori’s healing wisdom and learns that truth can restore dignity.

Laertes (Ophelia’s Brother) — Fiercely protective and hot-tempered in the original tragedy, Laertes becomes a rival-turned-ally through Hitori’s unusual “duel of compliments.”

Fortinbras (Prince of Norway) — Traditionally a figure of conquest, but in this joyful retelling, he lays down his spear to compete in building orchards and peace instead of wars.

Nick Sasaki — Founder of Imaginary Talks and narrator of this adaptation, he frames the play with reflective insights, drawing connections between Shakespeare’s tragedy and Saito Hitori’s joyful philosophy.