Chapter 31

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Chapter 31: Letters from the grave

The French countryside barely moved outside the window, just endless mist and stillness. Pale morning light filtered through the attic’s cracked panes, turning the dust into soft, floating ghosts. Isla’s hands shook as she traced the spine of the old leather chest that hadn’t been touched in years—maybe decades.

Christopher had left earlier, quiet and distant. His hand had brushed her back gently before the door closed behind him. A simple gesture, but it lingered. They both knew things had changed between them since that night. But Isla couldn’t think about him right now. Not when something inside her whispered that what she was about to uncover would change everything she thought she knew—about her mother, about Victor, and about herself.

With a rusty snap, the chest creaked open.

Inside, time had been preserved in fragments: old photographs, a delicate silk scarf that still smelled like violets and something sharper—like metal. And then, a bundle of letters tied with a worn black ribbon.

Her fingers hovered for a second before tugging it loose.

May 17, 1999

My beloved Victor,

I saw you again today—in the mirror. You were standing where no one else dared, just watching me. Your eyes… they used to terrify me. Now they only pull me in. I know I said I’d stay away. You said you’d let me go. But we both know promises are for weaker people.

Isla’s stomach twisted. Her mother’s handwriting—elegant, passionate, raw.

She flipped to another.

July 4, 2000

They said you were experimenting with consciousness. They called you dangerous. Maybe they were right. But that night, when I let you in—I wasn’t scared. I wanted to feel something. Anything. You said you’d give me clarity. You gave me madness. But I chose it.

Isla pressed a hand to her mouth. Her heart was racing. Was this why Mira had been institutionalized? Not just because she lost herself—but because she chose to?

The last letter was dated two days before her mother’s death. Or what they’d told her was a suicide.

September 13, 2003

Christopher knows. He found out I’ve still been writing to you. He says you’ll destroy me—that you already have. But he doesn’t understand. You offered me something no one else ever did: rebirth. If anything happens to me, Victor, please… protect her. Protect Isla.

The paper slipped from her fingers. Her chest felt hollow.

Christopher knew.

He’d known everything.

He’d kept this from her.

A scream rose in her throat, but she swallowed it, her breath jagged. The attic seemed to shrink, the weight of everything closing in.

Her mother hadn’t been some poor, broken woman lost to a madman’s manipulation. She’d loved Victor. Chosen him. Dived into his darkness willingly.

And Christopher—the man Isla had trusted, leaned on—had built his love on lies.

A knock echoed from the stairwell.

“Isla?” Christopher’s voice. Gentle. Hesitant. “It’s me.”

She stuffed the letters back into the chest and slammed it shut just as the door creaked open. He stood there, framed by the doorway, eyes heavy with knowing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice barely held together.

He stepped inside slowly. “Because I was trying to protect you.”

“You told me she hated him. That he ruined her.”

“He did. But she couldn’t see it. Mira thought pain was love because she never really had anything else. And Victor knew how to use that.”

“But she loved him,” Isla said, the words breaking on her tongue. “She picked him—over you, over me.”

Christopher knelt beside her. “In the end, she didn’t. She left you with me. She trusted me.”

Isla stood abruptly. “But you lied. You made me think she was a victim when she was part of it!”

“She was manipulated,” he said tightly. “And yeah, I let you believe a version of the truth I thought would help you survive.”

“Because you wanted me to need you,” she shot back.

He winced. Just slightly. But it was enough.

Silence stretched between them.

“You kept the letters,” she said slowly. “You knew they were here.”

“I did.” He didn’t deny it. “I was waiting for the right time. When you were ready.”

“You mean when I was too attached to ever leave.”

Something dark flashed in his eyes—regret, guilt, maybe something more possessive.

“I’ve never lied about my feelings for you,” he said softly. “You were never supposed to be caught up in this. But now that you are... I won’t lose you.”

Her spine stiffened. “You sound just like him.”

Christopher’s jaw tightened. “I’m not Victor. He broke women like your mother. I protect them.”

“By controlling them?” she whispered.

He stepped closer. “You’re not trapped, Isla. Unless you want to be.”

But she could feel it now—how every moment, every comforting gesture, had wrapped around her like velvet chains. Her mother had confused obsession for love. Was she doing the same?

“I need air,” she said, her voice sharp with panic.

He didn’t stop her as she brushed past. But his voice followed her down the stairs, low and steady.

“You’ll come back, Isla. You always do.”

And maybe—just maybe—he was right.

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