Alexâs Journal - Bowerstone Market
Mother met me on Bowerstone Marketâs bridge. She held my hand tightly, her face pale beneath her shawl. Her eyes were rimmed red as though she'd spent the night awake, rehearsing how to tell me.
"Victor's gone," she said quietly, and at first, I thought she'd simply meant he'd finally given up, moved away from Oakfield to start again somewhere far from all our mess.
But the truth was much darker.
"He took his own life, Alex," she whispered. "Jumped from the cliffs in Rookridge, right by the statue. They found him yesterday morning."
The words echoed in my ears, mixing with the dull murmur of merchants and townsfolk bustling through the market behind us. Victor, gone.
All because of me.
My knees buckled. My chest tightened until I could barely breathe, and the world tilted sickeningly. I leaned against the stone railing and felt the stoneâs cold bite in my palms. Below, the river moved steadily, indifferent, oblivious to the small tragedies unfolding above.
Mother wrapped an arm around my shoulder, steadying me. "You may start hearing whispers--just foolish gossip, nonsense stories--about his ghost haunting the cliffs at night, calling your name. But it's not true, Alex. It's just their cruelty, nothing more."
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The image of Victor, alone and desperate, leaping from that very spot we'd planned to begin our life together, refused to fade.
A memory surfaced suddenly, vivid and painful: Victor and I at those same cliffs, laughing as we tossed stones into the world below, promising weâd always keep each other safe.
Tears blurred my vision, guilt searing through me.
"Why didnât anyone stop him?" I choked out, my voice cracking. "Did he say anything? Leave any note?"
She shook her head sadly. "Nothing that I've heard. Just questions left behind--yours and theirs."
That's when mother paused, looking down, choosing her words carefully. "He loved you, Alex, even at the end. I'm sure of it."
I stood there, numb, while the world around me carried on. The merchants laughed, children chased each other through the cobbles, and somewhere nearby a bard strummed loudly, singing a smug ballad about some âReaverâsâ latest escapades--something about pirates, pistols, and far too many women.
The scent of baking bread and freshly picked fruit filled the air, mingling nauseatingly with the sudden bitter taste of bile in my throat.
From a nearby stall, a trader called out cheerfully, "Celery! Fresh celery for your waist-whittling wonders!"
My stomach lurched sharply, memories rushing back of how I'd starved myself on celery when I first met Victor, desperate to look perfect for him. He'd gently teased me about it, bringing me apples from his farm and telling me I was beautiful exactly as I was. Now, the very thought of celery made my throat tighten painfully.
Life moved on, indifferent to Victor's end or my guilt. But for me, nothing could ever be the same again.
Tonight, in the silence of my room, I listen to every creak and whisper, wondering if the nonsense stories might have some truth after all. Wondering if Victor, lost and heartbroken, really does wait at the cliffs, endlessly calling for me to join him.
I canât bring myself to face him. I fear Iâll have to flee from him once more.