Alex’s Journal - Bowerstone Old Town

  Today was supposed to be my wedding day, the happiest day of my life. But I didn’t go.

  The dress still hangs on the bedroom door, swaying slightly every time the breeze pushes through the cracks in the old wooden shutters. Ivory silk, lace sleeves--carefully hand-stitched by Magda, who smiled kindly through her missing teeth as she assured me that all brides were nervous. But the issue wasn’t mere nerves.

  I stood this morning on the cliffs in Rookridge, exactly where we planned to say our vows. The statue loomed over me in the fog--he always loved that pompous figure, with its heroic pose and stern gaze fixed forever into the distance. He thought it was romantic, symbolic of strength and eternity.

  All I felt was dread.

  Victor had been so sure of us. He proposed by the Demon Door in Oakfield, near the calm lake that stretches toward the Temple of Light.

  I remember laughing when he knelt awkwardly in the damp grass, his rough hands trembling as he revealed a small wooden box with a simple ring inside. Before I could even say yes, the Demon Door illuminated, then swung wide open, welcoming us. We stepped cautiously inside, hand in hand, and found that enormous hammer--the Hammerthyst--gleaming purple in the light.

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  We sold that hammer to pay for the wedding. "The first investment in our future," Victor said proudly.

  We'd met at the Sandgoose Tavern, where so many Oakfield stories begin. He was a farmer--strong, reliable, and respected by everyone. He always brought the sweetest apples and brightest carrots from his fields, nestled beneath the Golden Oak. I worked my small produce stall, selling whatever the local harvest offered. Victor would linger at my stall far longer than necessary, finding excuses to speak to me, buying far more onions and turnips than one man could possibly need.

  We established ourselves as the enduring couple in Oakfield--the young couple everyone knew would last forever.

  However, as I stood on the cliffside this morning, gazing at the frigid statue, I felt like a different person. I felt trapped. I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right, that somehow I was living someone else's life and playing someone else's part. Victor deserved better than a wife who doubted every step she took toward the altar. He deserved certainty, confidence, and unwavering love. All the things I wanted to give him but somehow couldn't summon.

  So I didn’t go.

  Now, I sit here alone, surrounded by a silence heavier than any hammer could ever be. I don't know what he'll think or what they'll all say tomorrow.

  Perhaps he’s still there, waiting by the statue, his heart breaking silently in the fog.

  Perhaps he has already made his way back to Oakfield, filled with anger or humiliation. All I know is that the dress still hangs, accusing and silent. And I--I have never felt more lost.