She took their son with her—but it was only a dream…
Marina met Stanley at a dance in the village hall. He noticed her at once—tall, graceful, and laughing, with lively eyes. All evening, he stayed by her side, and when the music ended, he offered to walk her home.
“Shall I come by tomorrow? We could take a stroll,” he asked as they said goodbye.
“Yes,” she whispered, feeling her heart flutter.
Thus began their story. In a village, news travels fast—soon everyone knew: Marina had a suitor. The neighbours murmured:
“They’ll be wed by summer. He’s smitten, and no wonder—they make a fine match.”
Before long, Stanley did propose. Their wedding was a merry affair, with half the village celebrating. The newlyweds settled into a cottage Stanley had built himself—a skilled man, raised by a carpenter. In time, they had a son. Life was good. For a while.
But Stanley began staying late at the pub—first to lend a hand, then to drink. The landlord was generous with his ale. It started innocently enough, but soon became habit.
“Stanley, enough of this,” Marina would chide. “Must you come home reeking of beer every night?”
“What’s the harm in a drink with friends? I provide, don’t I?”
Their boy grew, and Marina returned to work while her mother minded him. But Stanley kept “helping”—and stumbling home worse for wear. Their quarrels grew sharper. Once, she left for a week, but for their son’s sake, she forgave him. He swore to change. And he did—briefly. Then the cycle began anew.
She often thought to leave. But their boy adored his father. When sober, Stanley taught him woodcraft, played with him, built toy boats. For their child, Marina endured. And she hoped—perhaps he’d remember the man she married.
Years passed, and Stanley’s health faltered. He grew thin, his hands unsteady.
“See a doctor,” she pleaded.
“It’s nothing. A rest will mend me.”
He sought help only when too weak to rise. The surgeon’s face was grim:
“Too late, I fear. There’s little we can do.”
Marina nursed him to the end—pain, helplessness, tears. And then he was gone. The village turned out for his funeral, even those who’d scorned his drinking. They remembered his skill, his kindness when sober.
On the fortieth night, she dreamed of him—Stanley, shadowed and solemn.
“How fares life without me?” he murmured. “Enjoy it while you can. But remember—I’ll take our boy with me.”
She woke drenched in sweat, rushing to young Arthur’s room. He slept soundly. She told no one of the dream, yet guarded him fiercely after—each scrape, each cough filled her with dread. Stanley never haunted her dreams again. The vision faded… but the unease lingered.
Six months later, Arthur did not return from school. A cart had lost control—a tragedy, they called it.
Marina shattered. Grief choked her, stole sleep. After the burial, she spoke little. Months passed before she breathed freely. Then, slowly, life crept on.
She wed a widower with two daughters, bore another son. Time softened the edges. But her heart never wholly mended. Arthur remained—her firstborn, claimed by his father. The man who’d once been her world.
Now grandchildren play in her garden, and she smiles. But when Arthur visits her dreams, she weeps. For she believes, now, in warnings woven into sleep—omens we’re powerless to undo. All we can do is endure. And live… as best we may.
