On our wedding day, my childhood sweetheart and fiancé ended his life by jumping off a building.

Before he died, he left behind a mysterious note, and anyone who read it suffered the same tragic fate.

First, it was his grandmother, then his father followed, leaping from the rooftop of an eighteen-story building.

Each day, I was consumed by grief and despair.

I pleaded with Esther, my mother-in-law, to tell me what the note said.

Yet, she remained silent.

Even when others offered vast sums out of sheer curiosity, she kept her lips sealed.

Until the day I remarried, she whispered those fateful words to my new husband...

---

My husband disappeared on the very day we were supposed to get married.

That morning, I was in the bridal suite making the final preparations when my phone rang unexpectedly.

It was one of Atlas's students, their voice trembling so much it was hard to understand.

"Paige, you need to come to the art studio... Mr. Riley... he... he..."

By the time I arrived at the art college with my in-laws, the campus was in chaos.

Students stood in small clusters outside the studio, whispering among themselves.

Someone recognized me, their eyes showing a mix of horror and pity.

I dashed out of the car, still in my white wedding gown, with Esther close behind, her face as pale as a ghost.

A police line blocked the studio entrance; I broke free from the officers' attempts to hold me back and rushed inside.

In that moment, the world seemed to come to a standstill.

Atlas lay there, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. His right wrist was mangled, yet his left hand clutched a paintbrush tightly.

Blood splatters covered the floor, walls, and canvases all around.

On the largest canvas before him, in his own blood, it read: "Paige, I love you."

My legs gave way, and I collapsed to the ground.

My wedding dress soaked up the red, blossoming like a flower in a sea of blood.

"No, no, this can't be..."

Just last night, he had called me, his voice brimming with excitement about the ceremony.

"Paige, you know what? I'm so nervous I can't sleep, just thinking about how we'll finally be a family tomorrow."

His voice was filled with anticipation and happiness, and now, he was just... gone.

The police were busy examining the scene, while the coroner knelt beside Atlas, inspecting him.

I overheard snippets of their conversation: "Signs point to suicide," "No signs of struggle," "Estimated time of death approximately 3 AM."

Esther sat silently on a bench outside the studio, her hands covering her face, weeping without a sound.

Wilson, my father-in-law, stood beside her, his eyes vacant, as though he had aged a decade overnight.

After hours of investigation, the police initially concluded it was a suicide, finding no evidence of foul play.

The lead officer suggested we head home to look through Atlas's belongings, hoping to find some clues.

Once back at home, we searched every nook and cranny, desperate for answers.

Atlas's grandmother, Salem, found a letter beneath his pillow, the word "Will" scrawled across the envelope.

Her hands trembled as she opened it, her eyes scanning the page.

Her sorrow-stricken face suddenly froze, transforming into sheer terror.

Her lips quivered, her face turning even paler.

"Mom, what is it?" Wilson asked urgently, reaching for the letter.

We all crowded around, desperate to know what Atlas had written.

But Salem abruptly folded the letter, clutching it tightly.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she turned to Wilson.

"My son, I can't bear this," she cried.

The next moment, an unimaginable scene unfolded.

Salem suddenly bolted towards the balcony, and before any of us could react, she climbed over the railing and jumped.

From twelve stories up, there was no hope of survival.

Screams erupted from below as I rushed to the balcony.

I saw Salem's broken body on the pavement, her blood spreading around her.

Wilson let out a heart-wrenching howl, moving mechanically towards the balcony, only to be held back by Esther and me.

"Why, why..." Wilson murmured, terror and confusion etched into his eyes.

In his hands, he clutched the letter that had fallen from Salem's grip, yet he dared not open it.

In a single day, my entire world crumbled.

What should have been my wedding day turned into a tragedy, as my beloved Atlas and dear Grandma passed away, one after the other. I sat on the living room couch, tears ceaselessly streaming down my face.

"Why did this happen?" I muttered, thinking back. I was an abandoned baby, discovered by Atlas's family in the Alps. They believed I brought them good fortune and enveloped me with love. Atlas, in particular, had always been my protector, and over time, his affection for me grew deeper. We were meant to share a beautiful future together, but now everything lay in ruins. I needed to uncover the truth about what really happened.

“Dad, can I see the letter?” I asked quietly.

Wilson shook his head, gripping the paper tightly. "Paige, don't push it. Sometimes knowing too much is not a blessing."

I wanted to argue, but his pained expression stopped me in my tracks.

As night descended, the house was enveloped in an unsettling silence. Tossing and turning in bed, I couldn't rid my mind of Atlas and Grandma's smiling faces. Suddenly, a faint sound broke the silence. I slipped out of bed and noticed the living room light was on.

Wilson stood there, fixated on the letter in his hands.

“Dad…” I called out gently.

He turned abruptly, a peculiar smile spreading across his face. "Paige, I just want you to be happy."

A wave of unease surged through me, as though something dreadful was imminent. Without thinking, I reached out and touched his arm, feeling the eerie coldness of his skin.

“Dad, don’t…”

Before I could finish, he pulled away and dashed toward the balcony. His sudden movement sent me sprawling onto the floor. Pain jolted through me, but I ignored it and scrambled to my feet.

“Dad! Please, no! Dad…”

I screamed, my voice filled with despair and terror. But my cries were futile. Amid my screams, Wilson climbed over the railing and jumped.

I collapsed on the floor, my mind a blank void. It all happened so fast, too fast to grasp. Not until I heard the sickening thud from below did I return to reality, tears uncontrollably flooding my eyes.

Esther rushed out at the sound, and seeing the empty balcony, she instantly understood what had happened. Her legs buckled, and she sank to the floor, sobbing in unbearable grief.

In just a few days, our family suffered the loss of three members, and the news quickly spread throughout the neighborhood. Rumors swirled among the locals; some claimed we were cursed, while others suggested a string of murders. The police returned to our house, and this time their demeanor was noticeably different.

A young officer, looking concerned, spoke seriously, "This situation is too unusual. We need to see that letter."

Esther sat on the couch, her head bowed in silence. I noticed her rubbing her little finger repeatedly—a telltale sign she wasn't being truthful.

"The letter... My husband already burned it," she murmured, her voice slightly trembling.

A shock ran through me—Esther was lying. But why? What could be so frightening in that letter that she felt the need to hide it?

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, clearly dissatisfied with her answer. They continued questioning, hoping to uncover some leads. I sat there, half-listening to their conversation, my mind elsewhere.

Suddenly, I looked up to find Esther's gaze; her eyes were a storm of emotions—sorrow, fear, and guilt. A chilling thought struck me: if the letter was truly that dreadful, did it mean something terrible for those who read it?

My heart raced, overshadowed by a sense of foreboding. Esther knew something, yet she chose to keep it secret. Why?

The police's questioning yielded no concrete evidence of foul play, and they eventually left. The young officer gave me a meaningful look on his way out, as if to say, "If you remember anything, feel free to contact us."

The room was left with just me and Esther, an oppressive silence hanging between us like an invisible barrier. I hesitated before speaking, "Mom, what did that letter really say?"

Esther's lips moved as if to speak but then fell silent. She shook her head, "I don't know."

No matter how I pressed, Esther insisted she didn't know the letter's contents. The weight of depression became unbearable, so I turned to medication and therapy for relief.

Whenever the darkness crept in, I'd find myself kneeling before Esther, begging for any hint of the letter's mysteries. But she would only shake her head in silent resignation.

"They're better off dead..." she would mutter, her eyes vacant.

In moments of clarity, guilt overwhelmed me. They were her closest family—the pain she bore was far greater than mine. What right did I have to force her to relive such horrors?