A Promise Across Time [Completed]

The Weight of Unspoken Truths

August 1965
Sweden

***RAVEN

I heard the unmistakable sound of Frida's door opening and closing from down the hallway. The soft click echoed through the stillness of the house, but to me, it was thunderous. My heart lurched in my chest, a wave of panic surging through me. Did she hear? The realization hit me like a punch to the gut—she had heard everything.

I could feel it in the sudden tension that filled the air, thick and suffocating. My pulse quickened as a deep sense of dread began to spread inside me. She knows. The truth that I had kept from her, the future I had tried to protect her from, had now slipped through my fingers. And Frida—sweet, unsuspecting Frida—had learned it all in the worst possible way.

Across the table, Grandma Arntine and I exchanged a glance, one heavy with understanding. Her eyes, usually so warm and reassuring, were now shadowed with concern. We both knew what had just happened, and the unspoken question hung between us: What do we do now?

Without a word, we stood up at the same time, our movements slow and deliberate, as though we could undo what had just transpired by being careful enough. But as I took a step toward the hallway, instinctively wanting to go to Frida, to somehow explain or soften the blow, Grandma stopped me. She reached out and placed a gentle but firm hand on my arm, her touch grounding me.

"Let me, child," she said softly, her voice calm yet commanding.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Part of me wanted to protest, to run after Frida and try to fix things, but another part of me knew that I wasn't ready to face her—not now. Not after everything I had just revealed. The truth was too raw, too overwhelming, and I wasn't sure I had the words to make it right.

I swallowed hard and nodded, stepping back. Grandma gave me a small, reassuring smile before turning and making her way down the hallway toward Frida's room. Her steps were steady, her presence comforting, as if she knew exactly what to say to soothe the storm brewing behind that closed door.

I watched her go, my stomach churning with guilt. Why didn't I tell Frida sooner? The question had been gnawing at me for weeks, but now it screamed inside my head, louder and more insistent than ever. I had convinced myself that I was doing the right thing by keeping the truth from her—that it was better not to interfere with the natural course of her life, as my aunt had warned in that dream. But now... now it felt like I had betrayed her.

The door to Frida's room remained closed, a barrier between us. I could imagine her on the other side, sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor as the weight of what she had overheard sank in. The thought twisted my heart. Frida had always been so full of hope, so eager for the future, and now... now she knew it wasn't as bright as she had imagined.

I sank back into my chair at the kitchen table, my mind swirling with regret. I had tried to protect her from the pain that lay ahead, but in doing so, I had caused her a different kind of pain—one that came from feeling deceived by someone she trusted. Would she ever forgive me for that?