The cold stone walls of Evelyn's prison cell felt like they were closing in on her, the air thick with the weight of years spent in confinement. Outside, the world continued, a place she could no longer touch, but inside, the darkness was all-consuming. It had been months since her trial, months since the world had turned its back on her, and months since she had given up any hope of redemption. But as she sat on the floor, her back pressed against the rough stone, something in her stirred—something that refused to be silenced.
Evelyn Bellamy had never been one to go quietly into the night. The fight within her was too strong, too deeply rooted in the truth she had uncovered. She had seen the darkness in the hearts of those who called themselves protectors, and she had fought to the end to expose them. And now, as her last day drew near, she knew there was one final message she needed to leave—a message that would not just speak of her own suffering, but of the legacy she had uncovered, one that could still be carried on by someone who could finish what she had started.
She rose to her feet, her knees weak but her resolve unyielding. The walls of the prison had become a second skin to her, their coldness a reminder of the years she had spent here, but also of the unfinished work that still burned within her. She knew the risks of what she was about to do—if the guards caught her, if the warden found out—she would never have a chance to speak again. But there was no other choice. She had to do this now, while the ink of her thoughts still flowed freely, before they buried her in silence once more.
Taking a deep breath, Evelyn reached down to the floor, where a small patch of dust had settled in the corner of her cell. She ran her fingers through it, her nails scraping against the rough stone beneath. Slowly, she gathered the ashes, letting them sift through her fingers. They were the remnants of the past, the crumbled memories of a life that had once been full of light, now reduced to nothing but dust.
But it was enough. She had learned long ago that even dust could carry meaning if one knew how to shape it.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the small piece of charcoal she had kept hidden from the guards—an object that had once been used for writing, now a tool for something far more urgent. With trembling hands, she dipped the charcoal into the ash, mixing it carefully until it became a thick, dark paste. She moved to the wall, her heart pounding in her chest. The stone was cold and unyielding, but it was also the only canvas she had left.
With a steady hand, she began to write.
"Margaret was not the first."
The words felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, each letter a slow, deliberate stroke of defiance. She could hear the echoes of the past as she wrote, the memory of Margaret's death still fresh in her mind. But Evelyn knew now—Margaret had not been the first. There had been others, others before her, others whose names would never be spoken again. Others who had fallen to the same dark forces that had taken Margaret, and that had condemned Evelyn to this fate.
She paused, her breath shallow, as she dipped the charcoal back into the ash. The words were coming faster now, almost as if they were demanding to be written, as if the truth itself had a voice that could not be silenced.
"Protect the girl."
The phrase burned through her chest like fire. She thought of Isabelle—the girl who had found her journal, the girl who had begun to uncover the truths that had been buried for so long. Evelyn had seen something in her, something that connected them in a way that went beyond mere coincidence. Isabelle was more than just a daughter of the town; she was the key, the one who could finish the work Evelyn had started.
But there was a warning, a warning that Evelyn could not ignore. There was still someone out there. Someone watching. Someone who had been behind everything—the murders, the cover-ups, the betrayal.
"He's still watching."
The words burned through her soul as she etched them onto the wall. She could feel the weight of the statement, the urgency in her hands as she wrote. There was no more time to waste. Whoever he was, he had not stopped watching. He had not stopped pulling the strings. And as long as he was alive, the town would remain in the grip of his influence, no matter how much Evelyn had exposed.
Her fingers were covered in soot now, the ink of the ashes smudging as she wrote. She could feel the walls closing in on her, could hear the distant sound of footsteps approaching. But there was one last thing she had to do.
Evelyn crouched down and pulled the loose stone from the floor beneath her cot. Her fingers trembled as she reached into the space below, retrieving a small, cold metal object—a key. It was the key to something she had never been able to reveal. Something that could change everything.
She had hidden it here, beneath the floor, just as she had hidden so many of the truths she had uncovered. Now, the key was hers to pass on, hers to leave for someone who could finish the journey she had started. Evelyn placed the key carefully beside the message on the wall, just out of sight from the guards, but visible enough for someone who knew where to look.
She could hear the guards' footsteps now, growing louder. The sound of their boots echoed down the corridor, and Evelyn knew her time was up.
With one last glance at the wall—at the words she had written, at the message she had left behind—she closed her eyes. The weight of the years, of the pain, of the secrets, seemed to settle over her like a final shroud. But there was one thing Evelyn knew as she sat back down, her fingers resting on the key: the fight was not over. Not for her, and not for Isabelle.
The truth would come out, one way or another.
As the door to her cell creaked open, Evelyn stood, ready to face whatever came next. She had done all she could. The rest, now, was in the hands of the girl.