Another tug propels me toward the statue, but I resist, standing my ground.
“No,” I say gently. “I’m not here to whisper in your ear. Besides, I already know my greatest fears.”
Wind whips around me.
She whispers words I can’t understand but her grief and fury shoot straight through my bones.
“My biggest fear isn’t dying alone,” I say. “It’s living with regret.”
More water pours down the statue’s cheeks.
“I see you,” I say. “Your life mattered. I won’t let you be forgotten.”
Leather creaks behind me. The horse releases a low uneasy whine. Not exactly threatening but not comforting either.
I turn.
The Rider’s body tilts, as if he’s listening to our conversation and waiting for me to continue.
Up close, the Rider isn’t monstrous. He’s contained. A force trapped in repetition. Doing the Widow’s bidding?
The women he took weren’t “brides” and they weren’t “saved.” Were they taken because the Widow believed it was kinder than letting them suffer her fate?
He’s not a monster or a savior. He’s an answer to someone else’s pain, repeated until it lost all meaning.
The horse’s dark, empty eyes stare into the night.
“You’re an instrument?” I ask, the realization shaking loose.
The Rider shifts, his horse stamping again, more adamant this time. The fog tightens for a heartbeat, squeezing like a fist, then loosens, unraveling at the edges. The script isn’t being followed. The Rider doesn’t know how to proceed.
Is this what breaks the loop—recognizing the injustice?
Choosing a path for others is the sin.
“What they did to you was unforgivable,” I whisper. “But you didn’t only curse the Sterlings. You turned your rage into revenge on the whole town. You chose who paid.”
Declan’s voice cuts through the mist, raw and urgent, echoing between the headstones.
“Emery!”
The mark around my wrist burns once, then cools.
Relief hits me so hard my knees buckle. I grab the cold bronze of the Widow’s skirt to steady myself. His call for me comes again, closer this time. He’s running. I can hear it in the uneven rhythm of his voice.
I turn back to the statue, heart hammering.
“It wasn’t just your husband.” The realization settles into place with terrible clarity. “It was everyone who turned their backs on you. You’ve been repeating what they started, waiting to see if things change.”
Wind surges through the cemetery, branches rattling, leaves skittering across frozen ground.
“That’s why you returned,” I murmur. “To make it impossible for this town to pretend what they did to you never happened.”
The Widow doesn’t move. The heaviness in the air shifts, loosening, like a knot worked free.
“I’ll tell your story,” I promise. “The real one.”
I turn again. The Rider straightens in his saddle.
