Hollow Vows

Failing Father

The manor was so quiet. My fingers traced the familiar walls, my heart heavy with the knowledge that my home would soon belong to the past. The air inside the halls felt thicker , weighed down by the sadness of all the goodbyes I had whispered within these walls.

I wasn’t sure if it was the veil or my tears blurring my vision as I reached forward, my gloved hand reaching for something – anything to hold onto but there was nothing and no one around me. Each step felt like I was slipping deeper and deeper into tar, the sound of my heels echoing in the grand but silent hall. The sunlight streaming through the high, arched windows painted the checkered marble floor in warm golds, mocking me with its beauty. The sun hadn’t yet begun to set, and that seemed the cruelest irony of all. There was still time -still a whisper of hope.

I paused near a narrow corridor window, the aged glass warping the view of the gardens below. The once vibrant blooms now seemed muted, their colors washed away by the weight of the day. My fingertips grazed the curtain’s heavy velvet as I leaned closer, straining for one last glimpse of the gardens where I had run barefoot as a child chasing butterflies, my laughter ringing out like a melody. I felt a noose of pearls tightening around my throat. My chest heaved, but no air came, my corset constricting more than just my ribs.I pressed trembling fingers to my lips, desperate to muffle the sob that clawed its way up my throat.I took a deep breath as I fought to steady myself. I turned, my gaze landing upon the mirror. Its frame was a marvel of craftsmanship, the carvings curling like ivy on the walls of an ancient abbey. It seemed less a mere object and more a portal, inviting me to step through. But the world it revealed was no sanctuary-only my own reflection staring back, clad in the finery of a bride from the stories

Mother once told me. The gown was exquisite, its silken folds cascading like moonlit water, the lace delicate as frost upon a windowpane. Every stitch seemed designed to flatter. Yet beneath the gown’s splendor is a woman who appeared as a lifeless figure adorned in beauty.

I caressed the bodice, fingers brushing over the intricate embroidery, as though the fabric weighed heavy upon me. My long black hair spilled in dark waves over my shoulders, its stark sheen against my pallid skin. I turned slightly, the motion slow and hesitant, and the train of the gown whispered against the floor. The eyes that met mine in the glass were not my own-or so I wished to believe. They were wide, their emerald hue dulled and muted, as if all their light had been drained. They belonged to a stranger, a woman whose pale face seemed carved from marble. I let out a small, uneven breath, the sound lost in the stillness of the room.

I step back from the mirror, there is no escape. I will leave for my new life, my new name-one chosen for me by others. The man I am to marry is nothing more than a distant face, a title spoken in hushed tones at the dinner table. I begin walking towards the foyer, one hand gliding along the banister, the other clutching my dress so I do not topple down the staircase. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the house itself were pulling me back, begging me not to go. The servants moved silently, their gazes lowered, aware of my melancholy but unable to offer solace.

In the parlor, my father sat by the fire, staring into the flames. He had always been a man of pride, but tonight, there was a weariness in his posture. He glanced at me when I entered, his eyes filled with something I could not quite name.

"Your mother wanted what’s best for you," he said quietly, as if that could explain it all, as if that could ease the ache inside me.I said nothing. I simply nodded; my throat too tight to speak. I knew this was what my mother wanted, security, a good match. The light from the fire danced across the walls, illuminating portraits of my ancestors -women who had made the same journey before me, their faces solemn and resigned.

My father stands with a groan, his movements stiff and weary.

“Are you ready to leave, Priscilla?” he asks, his voice soft, yet tinged with sorrow. He extends a hand towards me, offering a weak smile. He is dressed in his finest attire, the seams of his worn suit brushed and pressed to perfection. His silver hair combed back carefully. He has tried, with quiet dignity, to present himself as deserving of the Coffin family’s esteem, though the weight of his effort hangs heavily on his shoulders like his much too big blazer. I nod. Taking his outstretched hand, I let him lead me from the room. His grip is gentle but firm, as though trying to steady not just me but himself as well. Behind us, the servants fall into step. They move with practiced precision, gathering the train of my gown. The carriage waits just outside the manor, its dark frame gleaming in the amber glow of the setting sun. Its wheels which were polished to perfection, seem stark against the gravel path, and the horses stand still, their breath clouding in the cool evening air.My Father pauses as we reach the door, his hand tightening briefly around mine. The sun catches the deep lines etched into his face, the years of care and struggle now plain to see. His watery blue eyes searching for my face. For a moment, I see the pain he hides,

the ache of a man forced by circumstance to betray his daughter’s freedom. “It’ll be all right,” he whispers in my ear, though we both know the words are a lie. He then turns to the driver with a nod. The man tips his hat silently, stepping back to open the door.

“I’ll help you up,” Father murmurs, his voice softer than the rustling leaves overhead. He gestures to the step, his other hand steadying my arm as I gather the heavy folds of my gown and step inside.

The carriage creaks faintly under my weight, the leather seat cools beneath me as I sink into it, the satin of my skirts spilling across the narrow space like a tide. Father climbs in after me, the effort of the movement marked by a slight wince. He settles into the seat beside me, his hands clasped tightly turning his knuckles pale. His gaze lingers on me for a moment before drifting to the window. Outside, the servants linger in silence, their figures shadowed against the warm light of the manor. I catch a glimpse of one dabbing her eyes with an apron, her sorrow mirroring the ache I dare not show. The c***k of the driver's whip- a warning before the sharp jerk forward, the wheels crunching against the gravel as the horses begin their steady trot. The manor grows smaller with every turn of the wheels, its familiar warmth fading into the distance. The sun, now sinking closer to the horizon, bathing the sky in hues of orange and pink, painting the beginning of an ending I dreaded.