Alexâs Journal - Bowerstone Old Town (Motherâs House)
It's been two days. I'm staying with Mother in Bowerstone Old Town, hidden away behind walls that draw tighter by the hour. Oakfield feels impossibly far away now, a distant memory tinged with shame.
Mother found me crying at the kitchen table this morning, untouched bread and cheese forgotten in front of me. She sat quietly for a moment, then sighed and brushed my tangled hair away from my face.
"It'll be okay, love," she murmured softly. But her eyes were heavy, and I could tell she'd heard it all--probably more than she'd wanted to.
Mother runs her deliveries twice a week between Bowerstone and Oakfield. Fresh herbs and rare spices for the Sandgoose Tavern, gifts for weddings and celebrations at the Temple of Light. People talk freely in front of her, not knowing or caring that she's my mother. Today she heard them whispering loudly as if they wanted their words to follow her home.
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"They called me a slag, didn't they?" I finally whispered, afraid to look her in the eye.
She hesitated, then nodded. "They're fools, Alex. Simple folk filling empty lives with mean words," she assured, but I could hear the anger beneath her careful comfort. "They say you've run off with some other man. A sailor, a bandit--someone exciting, they reckon."
I laughed, bitterly. "Exciting? I ran away because I was scared. Not because I wanted excitement."
She cupped my cheek gently. "I know that. But they donât. And your Victorâ¦heâs been looking for you. Everywhere. Went knocking on doors all night, frantic, desperate. Everyone saw."
I imagined Victor's strong shoulders slumped, his usually bright eyes now shadowed with confusion and agony. My chest tightened painfully. He didnât deserve this humiliation. I wished I could reach out, apologize, explain, but how could I when I hardly understood myself?
"Mother?" I asked quietly, terrified of the answer, "Do you think he hates me?"
She sighed deeply, rubbing her hands together as if to keep warm. "No, love. But he's hurting, and right now, that's almost worse."
Tonight, I lie awake, listening to the sounds of Old Town outside my window--the soft chatter, the distant laughter of strangers. I canât help but wonder how long until the whispers reach here too. How long until Victor finds me and demands answers I still can't give?
For now, itâs just me, Mother, and the heavy weight of all those ugly stories.