Escaping a tragic destiny

The water. A door, like the stone tied around thy waste Ophelia. Let it not be so.

The lake had always frightened Ophelia. As a child she would stand at its edge and stare into the dark water, convinced it was her destiny.

The darkness seemed to be a representation of her soul, her mind, her meaning.

People would scoff when she spoke of it, saying it was only a lake. But deep inside, she felt her life and that water was somehow connected.

Years passed and heartbreak found her. It washed over her, like the dark water that wanted to consume her.

Her lover left without a goodbye, her father died unexpectedly. Friends said they would always be there, but they drifted away. Each loss, pulling her deeper into the abyss.

She stopped painting, stopped singing. There was little belief that tomorrow would bring a better day than today.

One Autumn evening, the rain fell from gray skies. The gray was as thick as the sadness she felt inside. Ophelia found herself drawn towards the lake.

The wind whispered through the trees. The dark water rippled, as if calling her name.

“This is how the story ends”, she whispered.

She stepped closer. Then she heard a voice. “Only if you let it.”

Startled, she turned. An old man stood beneath a weathered umbrella. His silver hair danced in the wind.

“You know my story?” Ophelia asked.

The man nodded. “Everyone knows the story they were told. Few know they can write another.”

Ophelia looked back at the water. “It feels impossible.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. For some strange reason, she felt this man knew her, his face radiated love, the kindness in his eyes represented truth, he gave her a promise that she could rewrite her story.

She looked back at the water, then up to him. “What if I fail?” Ophelia asked.

The old man smiled. “What if you don’t?”

Something clicked in those words. The weight was still there, but it no longer owned her.

She took one last look at the water, then she stepped back. One step became another. Then another.

She thought the old man was holding her hand guiding her away. When she turned to look at him, he was gone.

Ophelia never saw him again.

Was he an angel, maybe God? She did not know that answer, but he gave her hope.

The years to follow were not perfect. There were still tears, mistakes and lonely nights. There was also laughter, new friendships, new love. Paintings that filled galleries. Songs that made strangers cry and smile.

Every Autumn, she returned to the lake.

Not to surrender.

But to remember.

Destiny is not a path carved in stone. Sometimes it is a door.

The bravest thing a person can do is to refuse to walk through it. Braver still is the person that looks past the old pages and writes a new story