Fifteen years ago, my mother vanished during a land dispute, and everyone told me she died in the freezing waters of Mist Creek.
Saturday morning, the air was still, heavy. The freezing rain had stopped, leaving behind only a damp chill. The supernatural cold that had haunted Oakhaven Manor, that biting, unearthly frost, had lifted. Replaced by a profound, suffocating quiet.
I stood beside a newly dug grave overlooking Mist Creek, the water a dull, slate gray beneath a bruised sky. A small, private plot. Just myself, Clara, and Leo.
The gravediggers had finished their work, their shovels silent, their faces respectful. They left us alone with the fresh mound of earth.
Clara, pale and red-eyed, held Leo’s hand. Leo clutched a single, frost-kissed white rose, his small face solemn, his eyes distant.
The wooden casket was lowered, a quiet creak of ropes, a soft thud as it settled into the earth.
I watched the first handfuls of soil fall, the dull patter echoing the emptiness in my own chest.
My mother. Gone, again. This time, forever.
The victory over Marcus felt hollow, a bitter taste in my mouth. I had saved my business. I had dismantled the man who sought to ruin me. But what was it worth?
Nothing could bring her back. Nothing could erase the image of her walking into the freezing fog. My lack of faith, my hesitation, my doubt—those were the tools that had delivered her to the cold earth.
I stood at the grave long after Clara and Leo moved away, lost in my own silent vigil. The air felt lighter, but the burden in my heart grew heavier with every passing second.
The house remembered what men tried to bury. And now, so did I.
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