Fredrico: A Valentine’s Tragedy

Fredrico had always been a dreamer. In the quiet town of Maribel, his love of romance was renowned. On cold winter mornings, he’d leave handwritten poems on the town’s noticeboard, signed only with a heart. At the annual summer festival, he once serenaded an elderly couple who were celebrating their fiftieth anniversary, bringing the crowd to tears.

Everyone in Maribel knew Fredrico had a heart full of love to give, even if he hadn’t found the right person yet. He believed in soulmates, grand gestures, and the magic of Valentine’s Day. This year, he had prepared something truly special: a bouquet of crimson roses wrapped in velvet and a large heart-shaped box of chocolates. Both gifts were meant for his beloved, Mariana, a girl with a laugh that could light up the dreariest winter day. That evening, he would finally confess his feelings and promise her the world.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Fredrico set out. The path to Mariana’s home wound through the outskirts of town, where the streets were quiet, and lanterns flickered faintly against the darkening sky. Fredrico’s heart raced with a mix of anticipation and fear. Each step brought him closer to a future he had long imagined: one where he and Mariana would spend their days together, her hand in his, their laughter filling the air.

But fate had other plans.

As Fredrico crossed the old stone bridge near the edge of town, the air grew colder, and a thick mist curled around the ancient stones. The lantern light barely reached the middle of the bridge, casting eerie shadows that seemed to shift and dance. Fredrico’s steps slowed as unease crept up his spine, and the muffled sound of rushing water below only heightened the oppressive silence. Then, a shadowy figure emerged from the dense fog ahead, its movements deliberate and menacing. Fredrico froze, clutching the bouquet and heart tighter. The figure, a desperate thief, demanded Fredrico’s belongings. Fredrico, ever the romantic, refused to relinquish the gifts meant for Mariana. “These are for someone I love,” he said, his voice steady despite the fear in his chest.

The thief’s patience snapped. The two grappled in the dim light, Fredrico refusing to let go of the gifts meant for Mariana. The thief, desperate and enraged, shoved Fredrico with all his strength. Fredrico staggered, his hands fumbling for the bouquet as it slipped from his grip, the heart-shaped box tumbling to the edge. He reached out to steady himself, but the slick stone railing gave way. His final thought before the plunge was of Mariana, waiting for him, unaware of the tragedy unfolding. The world seemed to slow as he lost his balance, the bouquet slipping from his grasp and the heart tumbling after. The icy river below swallowed him whole, its current swift and merciless.

When Fredrico’s body was found downstream the next morning, the town mourned the loss of its kind-hearted dreamer. But the tragedy didn’t end there. On Valentine’s night, beneath the pale glow of the moon, Fredrico’s ghost appeared near the old stone bridge. Draped in the ethereal white of his spectral form, he clutched the phantom remains of his offerings: a bouquet of roses that never wilted and a heart that never broke. His hollow eyes seemed to search the horizon as if still seeking Mariana.

Stories spread quickly. Travelers passing the bridge would see him wandering, his form glowing faintly in the mist as if emerging from the fog itself. Some said they saw him clutch the bouquet to his chest, its petals shimmering with an otherworldly glow, while others swore they heard the faint rustle of roses as he walked. Witnesses often felt a wave of sorrow and longing, an inexplicable ache that lingered long after they had left. Those brave enough to approach claimed his hollow eyes seemed to follow them, silently pleading for a chance to fulfill his undelivered love. Some claimed they heard his whispered apologies, carried on the wind: “I’m sorry, Mariana. I was on my way.” Others said they saw tears glimmering like dew on the ghostly roses he held.

Mariana, heartbroken but brave, visited the bridge one year after his death. She stood in the moonlight, calling out to the ghost she had heard so much about. “Fredrico,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I know you loved me. I know you were on your way.”

Fredrico’s ghost appeared, his form more solid than the legends had described. He raised the bouquet and the heart toward her, but before she could reach out, he vanished into the night, leaving behind the faint scent of roses.

Now, every Valentine’s Day, Fredrico’s ghost is said to wander the town, a silent tribute to love’s enduring power. Along the old stone bridge where he fell, crimson roses bloom against the frost, their petals untouched by time, as if nurtured by his undying devotion. Those who see him say his presence brings both sorrow and hope—a reminder that love, even in the face of tragedy, can transcend the boundaries of life and death.