Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I turn, studying my surroundings. Fog curls at the edges of the cemetery but doesn’t cross some invisible boundary. The Rider remains a certain distance away, his ghostly horse stamping his feet, its massive hooves thudding softly against the earth.
My breath fogs in front of me as I turn away from the Rider and step closer to the statue. I follow her line of sight to where generations of Sterlings have been buried.
What about it?
Fear sharpens my brain. The oldest graves in that lot. The three young wives of Silas Sterling. One after the other. The death certificates I’d pulled listed causes of death like “puerperal exhaustion,” “childbed fever,” “hemorrhage.” Their headstones only had simple dates and scant info. No identity besides “wife of.” As if they were interchangeable. In my research I’d discovered four marriage certificates for ol’ Silas Sterling, though.
The mark at my wrist flares once, brighter now. As if compelled, I drift closer to the statue.
Whisper your love’s name to the Widow and she’ll tell you your greatest fear…
Nope. Not doing that.
Instead, I lean closer to the statue and lower my voice. “What did they take from you?”
The Widow has no answer, of course.
But the air around me shifts all the same.
Images slide through my mind. This time they’re not quick fragments triggered by pleasure. Papers. Signatures. Tears. A door slamming shut. A town turning away.
“You were never a widow. That’s a story they made up later, isn’t it?” I swallow, pulse racing. “You were the first wife?” I murmur. “You were erased somehow. Forgotten.”
The mark on my arm warms again.
“You weren’t sick. Or they would’ve just buried you with everyone else.” I frown as fragments of the answer fall within my reach. “You were inconvenient in some way?”
The mark warms again, ripples as if it’s exploring and expanding.
The answer explodes inside me. “You couldn’t have children and he replaced you with a younger woman who could?”
The mark warms again, then steadies.
“You weren’t just replaced, though, were you? You were cast out?” My throat tightens with borrowed fury. Back then, she might not have been able to own property. She’d have nowhere to go. “They let it happen. You lost everything. And no one stopped it.”
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.