“No more daughters-in-law for me, son—do whatever you like!” declared the mother.

When Mark finished his studies at Oxford, he found himself drifting through a strange haze of thoughts, and the notion of marrying his first love from secondary school, Lucy, floated through the misty corridors of his mind. Lucy had an ethereal charm; not only was she lovely to behold, she was clever and gentle too. She was also finishing her dissertation during that time, and together, they plotted to wed once their academic burdens were lifted.

Mark wandered through a labyrinthine manor, determined to tell his mother about his wedding, but she greeted him with a peculiar message, delivered atop a spiral staircase that curved endlessly upward. She decreed that Mark could wed only Eleanor from the house next door, or no one else at all. With certainty in her voice, she posed a question: what mattered most to Markhis profession or love? His mother envisioned him scaling heights and towers, a titan among men.

Eleanor hailed from an aristocratic family, her laughter echoing through stately gardens. She had harboured feelings for Mark since childhood, entangled in ivy and rose bushes, while Lucy, with neither pedigree nor notable roots, wandered the fringes. Lucys mother, rumoured to throw midnight parties for black cats, had whispered scandals that drifted through the village like fog. What would the neighbours think?

“I shan’t accept another daughter-in-law,” declared Marks mother as she peered through stained glass, “but do as you wish!”

Mark pleaded with her, standing at the threshold of a dream-like drawing room that faded in and out of focus, but she remained stubborn, threatening that if he chose Lucy, a curse would hang over them like an unending raincloud. Mark faltered in that surreal moment. Their courtship faded over six monthseach rendezvous in a misty park less vivid than the lastuntil it dissolved completely.

Mark eventually wed Eleanor. She truly adored him, but in a twist of dream logic, they decided not to have a ceremony, so as not to let Lucy glimpse a single wedding photograph. Their new life commenced in her familys sprawling estate, rooms so vast that echoes carried secrets from wall to wall. Marks parents helped him ascend ladders of opportunity, constructing staircases made of golden pound coins. Yet happiness was elusive, evading him like shadows in a foggy lane.

Mark refused the notion of having children. When Eleanor realised she could not convince him, she initiated divorce papers herself. By then, Mark was lost in his forties, and Eleanorat thirty-eightsoon found joy again, welcoming a child into her world and basking in genuine delight.

Marks nights became a tapestry of longing; he dreamed of Lucy, wandering through endless corridors and moonlit gardens searching for her, but she always slipped beyond reach. One day, an acquaintance spoke through a haze, revealing that Lucy, after their parting, had married the first gentleman she met, who turned out to be a rogue. Her life faded from the village as quickly as she had.

Mark retreated to his familys old flatits wallpaper peeling like memoriesand drowned his sorrows in gin, watching rain run down the windows. He gazed at Lucys portrait, its smile half-lost in shadows, and he never truly absolved his mother, as the town clock shuddered on and the curtains whispered secrets through the night.