Ophelia’s Farewell to the Waters
The river simply stretches its arms wide, without asking any questions, as if it welcomes her. Pressing her bare feet into the damp earth, she stands at its edge, her white dress billowing like a ghost half-born. She closes her eyes, listening to the soft murmur of water around her—a lullaby too tender for the violent screams tangled in her thoughts. Once, she moved through the corridors of Elsinore, her presence a hush before rain—her steps unnoticed, her words soft-spoken, her voice swallowed by the wills of men who dictated her fate. Her father told her whom to trust, and her brother warned her whom to love. But Hamlet’s love had been sweet once—or so she believed. There was the warmth of devotion in his words, and his gaze held the promise of something pure. He admired her—her beauty, her softness. But love, in its cruelest form, does not fade—it fractures, leaving poor souls to suffer. The change came like winter’s frost—slow, c...