The wind off the Black Lake was cold that afternoon, biting at your skin through your cloak as you stood at the shoreline, staring into the dark, rippling water. The argument still echoed in your ears—sharp words, cruel laughter. You hadn’t expected the confrontation to escalate. You certainly hadn’t expected them to snatch your wedding ring from your chain and hurl it into the lake like it meant nothing.

But it had meant everything. Even now—two months since the divorce, a year since the wedding—you wore it on a chain around your neck, hidden beneath your clothes, close to your heart. You’d told yourself you were just sentimental. But the truth had never left your chest, not even in the silence of your empty bed: you still loved Mattheo. Terribly. Inescapably.

Your breath hitched as you stood at the edge, the black surface stretching endlessly before you. You didn’t think—just felt the pull of grief, of desperation, of needing something to hold on to. Your boots shifted closer to the water. You were ready to plunge in, whether or not you’d find it.

“Are you seriously about to dive into the Black Lake in November?”

The voice hit you like a spell—deep, rough, achingly familiar. You turned, heart dropping, breath catching.

Mattheo stood a few feet away, his brows drawn in concern, damp curls falling into his eyes. He looked as haunted as you felt.

“What are you doing here?” you whispered.

He stepped forward slowly. “I was walking. Needed air. Saw you from the hill. You looked like…” He paused. “Like you were about to drown yourself.”

You looked back at the water. “I dropped something.”

“You never come here alone,” he said, gently now. “Not since…”