I decided to go to the central plaza where the execution of that man was to take place. The chill of early morning still clung to the air, and the stones beneath my feet echoed with grim finality.
I had scarcely recovered from the endless hours spent in restless wakefulness and sorrowful drinking, and every step seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken regrets.
As we are approaching the plaza, my eyes meeting those of Abelard—who sat before me in quiet vigil in the carriage—I could scarcely contain the tempest of anger inside. "Then? Why did you do that?" I asked abruptly, my voice hard and laden with bitter accusation.
Abelard's dark eyes met mine, and he began slowly, "When I told you to ask why you had to kill her, I knew I had offended you—I could see it in your eyes, the madness that consumed you…" His voice trailed off, heavy with remorse and resignation, as if it were meant to both justify and condemn the act.
