The Mystery Within Her Tears

Chapter 11: Shadows in the Light

The wind stirred around Willowbrook's cemetery, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Eleanor traced her fingers along the worn edges of William's headstone, her breath shallow as she gazed at the carved letters. She hadn't cried—not yet. The weight of his absence was a heavy ache in her chest, silent and unyielding. Facing her father now felt almost impossible.

She lit a cigarette, inhaling sharply. The smoke filled her lungs, bitter and biting, but she welcomed the sting. Anything to distract from the hollow ache inside her.

She murmured almost to herself, her voice barely above a whisper, "I'm sorry, Will. You were the only one who... actually understood me. And now... now I'm just alone."

The wind whispered through the branches above, bending them low as if in mourning. She felt like she was drowning, surrounded by a sea of her own regrets, and her thoughts drifted to her father—the man who hadn't been there, not when they needed him most.

Back at home, Eleanor drifted into her father's study. The place felt foreign, a shadow of the man she once knew. Books lay strewn across his desk, along with an old, leather-bound journal half-covered in dust. Curiosity won over her anger, and she opened it.

Inside, she found her mother's handwriting—a familiar, looping scrawl. She was about to turn the page when she heard the faint creak of footsteps behind her.

His voice, barely more than a whisper, asked what she thought she was doing in there. She didn't turn around, didn't even flinch.

She replied coldly, "Looking for answers. Something you clearly never thought I deserved."

He started, attempting to explain, "You don't understand—"

She cut him off, her voice like ice, "No, I understand perfectly. You're a coward. You weren't there for her, and you weren't there for William. You weren't there for any of us."

A bitter silence settled between them. Henry took a step forward, his face softened by the dim light, and she could smell the faint trace of alcohol clinging to his clothes.

He murmured, "Eleanor... I'm sorry. I know I failed you. I failed all of you."

She exhaled a sharp, humorless laugh, stepping back, shaking her head.

She stated, voice thick with bitterness, "Sorry doesn't bring William back. It doesn't change that you let her—you let her die alone, just like you let us fend for ourselves."

Henry's face fell. She turned away, letting the sting of the cigarette distract her. She didn't care for his apologies, not when they were coming years too late.

Eleanor left the house, her anger simmering beneath her skin. She walked aimlessly through town, her steps carrying her closer to Willowbrook's outskirts, where the mist clung like ghostly fingers to the trees. She didn't want to think, didn't want to feel, but as she walked, a familiar voice broke the silence.

Seraph, standing in the clearing, her gaze soft and searching, spoke to her gently, "Resting all those burdens on yourself, Eleanor, it's exhausting, isn't it?"

Eleanor stopped, her breath hitching at the sight of Seraph. The ethereal girl had become a strange comfort in the midst of her chaos, yet Eleanor wasn't sure if she wanted that comfort right now.

Eleanor turned away, shaking her head as if to clear the thoughts swirling in her mind. "What do you know about burdens? You flit in and out of existence without a care. You don't have to bear the weight of anything real."

Seraph's expression softened, unfazed by Eleanor's sharpness. "I know more than you think. Sometimes, the greatest burdens come from within. You hold onto anger like it's a shield, but it's only a prison."