Chapter 21: Threads of Truth
The village moved through time with lazy grace — days folding into one another like pages in a book no one was rushing to finish. The people were kind. The air was thick with calm. And yet, every heartbeat inside Avrielle was like a ticking clock.
She held onto her secret like it might burn her.
That morning, Ian had gone to the fields early, helping some of the men dig new irrigation lines for the upcoming season. Irene was still asleep, curled with her thumb tucked into her mouth, her curls a halo against her tiny pillow.
Avrielle kissed her daughter's forehead and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. The sky was overcast, and the wind was cooler than usual — it matched the strange tremble in her chest.
She didn't take the usual route to the healer's hut. Instead, she circled around the edge of the village, avoiding the bustling morning crowd. Her feet knew the path, but her mind was miles away.
She had to know. No more guessing. No more doubts.
She reached the old hut, built of dried cane and thick leaves, and pushed the flap open. It smelled of burning herbs, dried flowers, and something faintly metallic. The healer wasn't there.
Good.
She stepped inside and quickly scanned the shelves and woven baskets, trying to look for something — anything. Symbols. Notes. Vials. Even a misplaced memory.
And then, behind a faded red curtain that separated the room in two, she found something.
A small wooden chest. Nothing fancy. But it had a lock — and next to it, a key hung lazily from a hook.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
There were papers. Drawings. Symbols she'd seen before during rituals. Herbs labeled in a language she didn't understand. And then — at the very bottom — photographs.
Photographs.
Not painted images. Real photographs. Ones she didn't remember taking, but the girl in them… was her.
One image showed her and Ian at a party. She was wearing a pale blue dress, her hair tied up. He had his arm around her casually, both of them smiling, faces flushed with joy. It looked like a formal event.
Another photo — her standing in front of a brick building. Her school. Her school.
It hit her like a crashing wave.
She staggered back, breath caught in her throat. More flashes of memory came now — clearer, sharper. Her parents. Ian's laugh echoing in a different way. The party. The argument. The decision to escape.
The forest.
Her knees buckled, and she sat down hard on the woven mat, clutching the photos like lifelines.
They were kidnapped.
She remembered it now. Everything. The fear. The confusion. The rituals. The dreams. Her protests. And then… the rituals had stolen it all. Layer by layer, like mist settling into her brain.
And then, the wedding. The warmth of Ian's hands. The gentleness of his kisses. The way she fell in love with him again without realizing she already had — or maybe never had. She didn't know anymore.
She didn't cry.
She couldn't.
The memories were like threads being pulled too fast from a tapestry she'd grown to love.
Irene.
Her daughter.
A child born of manipulation — but also love. A love that grew even inside a trap.
She left the hut quietly, slipping the photographs into her shawl. The sun had begun to rise, and from a distance, she could hear children laughing.
And her own heart, breaking and beating all at once.
---
By the time she returned home, Irene was up and babbling, seated in Ian's lap while he fed her mashed fruits.
"There's my sleepy girl," he said cheerfully, glancing at Avrielle. "You went out early today."
"I… just needed some air," she replied, managing a small smile.
Ian tilted his head. "You okay?"
Avrielle forced herself to walk forward, brushing Irene's hair back gently.
"Yes," she whispered. "I'm okay."
But she wasn't.
The rest of the day passed in soft rituals — washing clothes, preparing meals, giggling with Irene as she made up stories about clouds shaped like animals.
But in the quiet moments, Avrielle watched Ian.
He was kind. Gentle. Playful. Everything a young father should be. Everything a husband should be.
And yet, he didn't know.
He didn't know that they had been friends — good, pure-hearted friends — until a single night changed everything. Until someone twisted time and love into a mold that suited them.
That evening, after Irene had been tucked in and the moon was high, Ian wrapped his arms around her as they sat on the steps of their little home.
"It's strange, isn't it?" he murmured. "Sometimes I feel like we've known each other forever, but I barely remember the first few days here."
Her heart skipped.
She turned her face toward him slowly. "Do you ever wonder… if we were different before?"
He looked thoughtful. "Different how?"
She shrugged lightly. "I don't know. Maybe less married. Maybe… just friends."
He smiled, brushing a kiss to her temple. "I'd have fallen for you anyway."
Her eyes stung.
"Ian…" she began, voice soft.
"Hmm?"
She looked at him, really looked. The boy she had once run through parties with, who had held her hand as they sneaked out into the night, who had been her partner in every harmless rebellion. And now — he was her husband. The father of her child. And she loved him. But she also ached for the version of them that never got the chance to choose.
"I'm glad you're here," she said finally, unable to say more.
He smiled again, his hand tightening around hers.
They went inside, into the warmth of their home. And as he kissed her that night, slow and loving, Avrielle kissed him back — her lips tender, her hands shaking.
She didn't know how to separate what had been taken from them and what they had created since.
All she knew was that the love she felt now was real. And confusing. And overwhelming.
And that it would never be simple again.