Along the Edge

It was one of those afternoons when I was too tired to do anything but play something casual. I installed the visual novel, Along the Edge, which I had gotten for free a couple of days earlier. For me, it was definitely awesome yet anything but casual. It brought dormant memories to the surface and made me face complex feelings.

The game is about a talented math PhD student, Daphné. To steer her life in a new direction after a painful trauma, she moves to a remote village in the French countryside, where she inherits her family's estate. Multigenerational secrets, personal drama, and local intrigue all blend together with a hint of supernatural (if the player chooses to believe in it).

Similarly to my post related to Road 96, this one is not so much about the game as it is about sharing flashes of my own personal story.

Warm welcome for those who return

During my first playthrough, my curiosity quickly carried me past the scene where the main character is greeted as a long-lost family member by the old couple taking care of her late grandmother's estate. But on the second playthrough, it evoked a memory.

Years after I revisited a castle once owned by my ancestors in the medieval era, my cousin and I spent a short holiday visiting a village that belonged to our family in the 19th century.

We attended a service in the local church, after which the pastor came and introduced himself. He knew everyone in his congregation closely and made it a point to meet the new members. We told him we were on a vacation to learn more about our family. He kindly guided us to a lady who worked at the mayor's office. She was helpful and curious, and when she heard that we were descendants of the noble family that once lived there, she spoke to us as kindly as if we were already beloved members of the community.

She showed us the parish archives and helped us look up dates and names from old birth records to fill in a couple of blank spaces and missing dates in our genealogy tree. It felt as though we brightened her day and she did the same for ours.

Silent stones

We lodged in a modern guesthouse at the edge of the village. Being close to the forest, it was convenient for hiking and gathering firewood for grilling. The old cemetery was also nearby.

The name of our ancestry was engraved on almost every second stone. It felt like looking back into the past. Many people who came before us had once lived there, with their own stories of happiness and tragedies. All of this became something you could almost touch. Being there also changed the sensation of time and history itself. It stretched out, and there was a long, unbroken chain leading to us. It was almost a spiritual experience.

That was also the place where we found the flower the village got its name from.

The broken chain

At a certain point in the visual novel, Daphné must face the thought that she is her family's last offspring and that the lineage ends with her. She is in the midst of coping with this deep and painful personal wound when it takes on another dimension. There is a belief in the community that her family's spiritual power keeps the village safe.

This motif stirred up feelings in me that are difficult to face. I have accepted the fact that I won't have a child of my own. But for me, this is not about passing on genes. It is about the family legacy.

Stories and anecdotes about generations before me. Values I project onto my ancestors to motivate myself to become the best version of myself.

Experiences of living through war and concentration camps, to remember and ensure it never happens again to others. Losing wealth and social status due to the cruelty of history but keeping dignity. Gaining a name while preserving backbone and humility. Starting from almost nothing but a passion for knowledge and justice, and becoming a respected member of the community. Being there for others when they face a crisis.

My father's brother wrote books about family history. My maternal grandfather collected vast amounts of genealogical data that my mom continued to expand and organize. And my favorite storyteller was my mother's godmother. She never ran out of tales. I loved listening to her as she introduced me to relatives who died before I was born and to places that no longer exist.

In December, I baked cookies using a roughly 150-year-old family recipe. They taste wonderful, and I always think fondly of how they connect the generations of our family. While making them this year, grief filled me for a moment when it struck me that I can't pass this on. Of course, it was just an old recipe. Yet, at that moment, it represented every cherished thought of my family that I can't pass on.

Or can I? The chain doesn’t break as long as the stories live on and the values survive and refine.