This one’s name is Abigail.
You can’t really see her face, for it hides behind a veil made of intricate black lace.
You might, however, hear her wail
from her loved one’s resting place. “Young for a bride, far too young for a widow, the poor Abigail”, murmur the ones in town.
Her steps leave a trail of whispers, chats and gossip all around.
“First her parents, then her sisters, now her Victor’s in the ground.” “Pity her from a safe distance, if you’re hoping to grow old: she is cursed, do not get near her”. That’s what everyone’s been told.
She is broken by these words, which she has no strength to fight.
“They all think that I’m a curse -and, dear God, what if they’re right?”