Oliver Whitcombe had always been the shining star of the Whitcombe family. From his earliest days, he was the pride of his affluent parents, respected figures in Londons high society. He attended Eton, excelled in polo, and eventually took the reins of his fathers lucrative property empire. His life was the picture of perfectionwealth, influence, the envy of all who knew him. Yet there was one shadow he couldnt shake: his mother, Eleanor Whitcombe.
Once a spirited and devoted woman, Eleanor had been left paralysed after a carriage accident five years prior. Her world had narrowed to the confines of a wheelchair, her independence stripped away. Oliver, ever the pragmatist, had no tolerance for such weakness. He resented the endless adjustments her condition demanded, the way her frailty anchored him. When his father passed the year before, the family fortune fell to himbut Eleanors needs were a chain around his neck.
One crisp evening, as they sat on the terrace of their sprawling estate overlooking the Dover cliffs, a thought took hold in Olivers mind. The sea roared below, white foam lashing the rocks, and for the first time in years, he tasted freedom. If only his mother werent thereno more doctors visits, no more pitying glances, no more duty.
The idea sharpened into something darker. He knew these cliffs. Countless souls had met their end here, swept away by the tide. A single push, and it would be over.
His faithful spaniel, Winston, dozed at his feet, oblivious. Eleanor gazed at the horizon, unaware of the betrayal brewing beside her.
With a cold breath, Oliver stood behind her. Youve lived long enough, he muttered. In one swift motion, he shoved her forward.
Her cry was lost to the wind as she vanished over the edge. Oliver stood rigid, pulse hammering. It was done.
But as he turned to leave, a whimper cut through the silence. Winston was now at the cliffs edge, paws skidding on the stone, barking wildly. Olivers stomach twisted, but he steeled himself. Enough, he snapped, striding away.
The authorities arrived within hours. An accident, they concludeda tragic misstep. Eleanors condition made it all too plausible.
Olivers relief was short-lived. Winston refused to leave the spot where Eleanor had fallen. The dog lingered for days, howling into the abyss. Oliver grew furious, locking him out, but Winston returned each night, a living reproach.
Sleep abandoned Oliver. The house creaked with ghosts. One evening, staring at a family portraitEleanor, Winston, himselfhe felt a sting of remorse. He crushed it at once.
Then Winston vanished. Oliver assumed hed run offuntil he saw the disturbed earth by the gate, as if the dog had dug his way out.
Weeks passed. Life resumed. Oliver rebuilt his social standing, burying the past.
Until one dusk, walking the shore, he heard a bark. Winston stood atop the cliff, eyes locking onto hisaccusing, knowing. Olivers breath hitched. What do you want? he rasped.
Winston growled, stepping forward. Oliver reached for him, but the dog recoiled.
A misstep. Olivers heel caught the edge. The world tilted. His scream was lost as he fell, the rocks rushing up to meet him.
Above, Winston watchedsilent, steadfast, the only witness to justice served by the unforgiving sea.
