Chapter 7 " Regrets "

“Regrets are chains, dear reader, forged by choices left unmade. Nora thinks she’s free of them. Let’s see how long that lasts. Keep your past silent, or you’ll share her burden…”

Nora Vega, a 22-year-old artist, worked late in her cluttered studio, a loft above a quiet café. Her life was a canvas of bold choices quitting college to paint, traveling solo, never looking back. 

She prided herself on having no regrets, always diving into opportunities, even if they failed. 

Her walls were lined with vibrant paintings, each a story of a moment seized. 

At 10:00 p.m., as she cleaned her brushes, she noticed a book on her workbench, half-buried under paint tubes. 

Old, leather-bound, its cover cracked and etched with twisting branches that seemed to shift in the lamplight. No title, no author. 

Nora frowned. She vaguely recalled someone handing it to her a customer, maybe ? but the memory was foggy, like a dream. 

She hadn’t bought it, hadn’t seen it here before.Curiosity flared Nora loved stories, especially dark folklore that inspired her art. 

She opened the book, its weight heavy, its pages crackling with a faint smell of ash and something cloying, like faded perfume. 

The first six pages were missing, torn out with jagged edges, leaving a reddish stain. The first intact page read

Chapter 7: Regret. The text was handwritten, the ink uneven, as if scratched with a trembling hand. Nora, intrigued, settled on a stool and began to read.

I lived without regrets, my days bright with her laughter. She was my childhood friend, my heart’s anchor. We played in fields, shared secrets, dreamed of forever. I thought we had time. 

But life pulled us apart family troubles, distance, five long years. When we met again, grown, my love for her burned fiercer. 

I planned to confess, to tell her she was my world. That day, I approached her, heart racing, but nerves choked me. I said nothing, promising myself tomorrow. 

Tomorrow never came. Each meeting, I waited for the “right time,” but time mocked me. Then the invitation arrived her wedding, to another. 

I stood in the crowd, silent, as she smiled at him, my regret a knife in my chest. Now I wander, trapped by what I didn’t say, haunted by a figure who feeds on my sorrow. 

Don’t speak of the past. The Keeper of Regrets is listening. 

Nora closed the book, her chest tight. The story stirred something a memory of Luca, a friend from high school she’d felt sparks for but never pursued, choosing art over romance. She shook it off, laughing. 

“No regrets here,” she said, but her voice echoed oddly in the quiet studio. The air felt heavier, the perfume smell lingering. 

The book’s pages rustled faintly, though no breeze stirred. She shoved it under a sketchpad, unnerved, and tried to paint. But Luca’s face kept surfacing in her strokes, his shy smile haunting her.

The next night, Nora returned to the studio, the book now on her easel, its cover glowing faintly. 

She ignored it, sketching, but her thoughts drifted to Luca what if she’d told him how she felt? A faint whisper brushed her ear “What didn’t you say?” 

The air turned cold, thick with ash and perfume. In the corner, a figure emerged tall, cloaked in tattered gray, its face a hollow mask with eyes like cracked mirrors. 

The Keeper of Regrets tilted its head, its voice a rasp: “Speak your regret, and be free.”Nora froze, the rule flashing: Don’t speak of the past. 

She bit her lip, but Luca’s memory surged his laugh, the moment she walked away. “I should’ve told him,” she whispered, unable to stop. 

The Keeper’s eyes flared, its mask splitting into a jagged smile. The studio warped paintings bled, canvases showed Luca’s face, then hers, weeping. 

Visions flooded her: Luca at a wedding, not hers, smiling at another. Her heart tore, regret swallowing her.

The book, now open on the floor, glowed, a new line scrawled: Your words bind you, Nora. 

Quola’s Keeper claims your past. The narrator’s voice hissed: “Regret feeds her, Nora. Speak, and you’re hers forever.” 

The Keeper’s hands reached, its mirror-eyes reflecting Nora’s tear-streaked face, as the studio’s shadows twisted into branches, dragging her into a void of endless yesterdays.