The Prophecy
“What’s that face for? You’ll love it there, just wait—sea, beach, sunshine,” said Irene, trying to catch her daughter’s eye.
But Alyssa stubbornly turned back to the window, where endless fields and low-lying vineyards stretched out. The motorway ran parallel to the railway, dotted with toy-like cars speeding by in the morning haze.
In the distance, the silhouettes of hills flickered in and out of view. The glare of the sun made her eyes ache. Alyssa checked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, then tossed it aside in frustration.
“Ah, the agony of first love,” Irene thought, sighing to herself before saying aloud, “Probably no signal. It’ll be better when we arrive—”
“Mum, stop,” Alyssa muttered, turning back to the window.
“Martha’s house is on a hill—you can see the sea from the windows. Sometimes you can even hear it. And the garden! The air!” Irene pressed on. “In a few hours, you’ll see for yourself.”
“Please don’t tell me she has a son,” Alyssa glared.
“She does. But not her own. Martha never had children of her blood. She raised another’s. He’s away at university—exam season, so you likely won’t even see him.”
“You said she’s your friend. How’d you meet if she lives down south and you’re from Surrey?”
“Oh, that’s a good story. I’ll tell you if you like.”
Alyssa gave a half-shrug, still staring at the monotonous landscape.
***
Martha and I grew up on neighbouring streets, went to school together. She wasn’t exactly a beauty, but her hair was striking—golden blonde, curly, catching the light. Strangers noticed her, glanced back. I liked to think some of that attention spilled over to me.
Before our A-levels, our class went out on a boat, then strolled through the city gardens. That’s where she met Michael—fell head over heels. We saw each other less after that. I didn’t want to intrude. When we did meet, all she talked about was him.
She’d dreamed of being an actress, wanted to study drama in London. But love won—she enrolled at Michael’s polytechnic so they wouldn’t be apart. I went to uni.
When we met, we’d talk for hours. A year later, Michael proposed, right before exams. She glowed with happiness.
Her mother and I helped pick the dress. Martha looked perfect in everything. She insisted I wear pale blue as her bridesmaid. Exhausting, but worth it. We sent her mum home in a cab and walked along the Thames. Warm for May.
People stared at Martha—radiant in white—but she didn’t notice. We ate ice cream, laughed about wedding plans.
Then two Romani women approached, bothering passersby. The plumper one blocked our path.
“Ah, pretty thing, let me tell your fortune. The whole truth,” she crooned.
The other lingered behind—scrawny, plain, with a horse-like face.
“I know my future,” Martha grinned, licking her ice cream.
We tried to step past, but the woman grabbed her wrist, studied her palm, and clicked her tongue.
“A wedding awaits you, golden girl.”
“I know that much,” Martha tried to pull free.
“We’ve no money for this,” I cut in.
“Good news costs, but bad news comes free,” the woman said, sending chills down my spine.
Her stare fixed on Martha, unblinking. The younger one smirked—or maybe it was just her mouth.
“Don’t listen, let’s go,” I urged.
“You’ll love deeply, but briefly. You’ll fall from a horse at your wedding, suffer greatly. The sea will heal you. No second marriage—but joy in a son.”
Then she released Martha and walked off. The girl glared before scurrying after.
We walked in silence, the joy drained away.
“You can’t believe that,” I said. “You’re not riding some knackered old nag to the registry. We’re taking cars. She barely looked at your hand!”
“True. No horses for me,” Martha said, shaking it off.
After exams came the wedding. They’d honeymoon by the sea—a relative’s gift. We forgot the prophecy.
Then the big day. Groom due any minute. We stood before her mirror as she adjusted her veil.
“My dad calls his Land Rover ‘the stallion.’ I’m not riding in it.”
“Good. Take another car.”
“No cars. The registry’s close—we’ll walk,” she decided, grinning at me in the glass.
“Bold. Not every day you see a bride stroll through town.” We laughed nervously.
Convincing Michael took work. Parents objected. Martha stood firm—walk or no wedding.
Nothing happened. They exchanged rings, kissed, became husband and wife. Now surely they’d take a car. But Martha insisted on park photos. And it was stunning—flower beds, arches draped in ivy.
“Let’s get you on the carousel,” the photographer said.
Bright, with painted wooden horses. Michael helped her onto a white one, took another himself. I arranged her train. Music started, the ride turned. They reached for each other as the camera clicked.
“Mummy, look! A bride on a white horse, like a fairy tale!” a child cried.
No one saw it happen. Martha later said the dress slipped on the smooth wood. The shout startled her—she lost her grip, slid. Her heel caught between floorboards. She fell, screamed, then went still.
Instead of a reception, we rushed to hospital. A bad ankle break. Surgery went wrong. She walked with a cane after, in constant pain. Six months later, they went to Oxford for another op. Months on crutches.
***
“Did she recover?” Alyssa asked.
“Mostly. Still limped slightly.”
“And Michael?”
“Hospitals wore them down. Martha stayed in, ashamed first of the cane, then crutches. Told him she didn’t love him anymore. They divorced—she feared he’d leave first.”
“And he did?”
“He did. Married again soon after. Real love survives trials. First love often isn’t love at all.”
“I’ll never get my fortune told before a wedding,” Alyssa vowed.
“Good. Martha fixated on avoiding risk—and made it worse. Had she taken the car, skipped the carousel…” Irene sighed. “But that’s life.”
“Did she remarry?”
“No. After the divorce, her parents took her to the coast. Off-season, quiet. They rented a seaside house. Where we’re staying.”
“The owner’s daughter had run off with a tourist. Came back two years later with a son, left him, vanished again. The old woman nearly gave him to social services—too much for her age. Martha convinced her to keep him. Refused to return to the city.”
“Years later, the woman died. Martha still lives there with the boy. His birth mother tried reclaiming the house, but the old lady had left it to Martha. The boy refused to know her. So they remain—just as the Romani woman foretold: happiness with a son by the sea.”
“Why tell me this?” Alyssa squinted.
“So you don’t askAs Alyssa listened to the distant sound of waves that night, she realized some stories don’t need happy endings—just new beginnings.
