Chapter 1

For three years of marriage, Clara has had to disinfect herself three times every day upon returning home.

The first time at the funeral home, the second time before entering the door, and the third time in the bathroom.

These rules were set by her husband, Julian.

Simply because he is a doctor and a germaphobe.

Clara had always assumed he was like this with everyone.

Until she saw him take a sip of coffee that his female colleague had already drank from.

So, it turns out he isn’t a germaphobe.

He just thinks she is dirty.

Because she is a mortician who applies makeup to the dead at a funeral home.

……

At one o'clock in the morning, Clara returned from the funeral home.

The living room lights were still on.

Julian was leaning on the sofa, wearing thin gold-rimmed glasses, head lowered as he flipped through a medical book.

Hearing the door open, he didn't look up: "Why so late."

Clara stood at the entryway, taking off her coat while talking to him.

"I spent four hours today performing mortuary services on a girl who passed away in a car accident, restoring her face piece by piece."

"That’s why I got off work late. It was hard to get a cab at the funeral home; three were canceled in a row, and I had to walk for half an hour before I finally hailed one..."

Before she could finish, Julian cut her off directly.

"There’s no need to tell me about your work matters. Just go wash your hands and disinfect."

Clara paused for a moment before turning and walking into the bathroom.

She had already washed twice at the funeral home, but she had to wash again upon arriving home.

Not because she was dirty, but because Julian did not believe she was clean.

Once, she had forgotten to disinfect and touched his cuff.

He didn't say a word, just turned around and went to change his shirt.

Clara washed that shirt three times, dried it, folded it, and placed it back in the wardrobe; he never wore it again.

From then on, walking around the house felt like stepping on someone else’s territory.

Clara dried her hands and walked slowly into the living room.

Julian looked up at her once, then lowered his eyes again.

"If you find the work at the funeral home too exhausting, just quit."

This wasn't the first time Julian had said this to her.

Every time she shared things about her work, his answer was always only two words—"Quit your job."

Clara looked up at him and asked softly.

"You spend seven or eight hours standing in the operating room and that’s exhausting too. Would you choose to quit?"

Julian put down his medical book: "We are different."

With that, he got up and walked toward the bedroom.

Clara stood where she was, suddenly remembering the day they went on a blind date three years ago.

She had hesitated for a long time before telling him her profession, but Julian didn't change his expression like others did; he only said:

"I am the gatekeeper of life, and you are the ferryman of death. It’s quite a match."

Because of that one sentence, she married him.

Even though she knew he didn't love her, she thought back then that feelings could be cultivated, and she would eventually be able to warm him up.

But now, she doesn't know—can a person really warm up a stone?

When she returned to the bedroom after showering, Julian was already asleep, his back turned to her, his breathing steady.

They had always used separate duvets, each occupying one side, never getting close.

Clara lay down gently, staring at the ceiling.

It was clear that if she just reached out, she could touch his back, but the duvet separating them felt like an uncrossable boundary.

Tossing and turning all night.

Waking up in the morning, the space beside her was already empty.

Julian had left early for the hospital. In three years of marriage, they had never even said a single "good morning" to each other.

Clara clearly had a husband in name, living under the same roof day and night, yet she always felt completely alone.

Many times she felt dazed, thinking that she wasn't married at all, but merely renting a room with a roommate.

After getting ready, she left for work as usual.

The director of the funeral home called her to the office: "Clara, a decedent passed away at the hospital, and the family is out of town and cannot make it. Can you go to the Central Hospital to help process the death certificate?"

Clara nodded and took a cab to the hospital.

Just as she arrived in the lobby and turned the corner of the corridor, her footsteps abruptly stopped—

Julian was standing there in his white coat, with a female doctor standing less than half a step away from him.

The female doctor took a sip from her coffee, leaving a faint lipstick stain on the rim.

Then, she handed the cup to Julian.

Julian was looking down at some documents; he lifted his hand to take it, his lips landing exactly on that lipstick mark.

The act of drinking the coffee was natural and familiar.

Watching this scene, Clara suddenly felt that the scent of the disinfectant on her skin felt scorching and painful at this moment.

The rules she had so carefully followed were, in fact, just a restricted zone Julian had set for her alone.

He wasn’t a germaphobe.

He just thought she was dirty.

Chapter 2

Clara suppressed the surging emotions in her heart and walked out from around the corridor corner step by step.

The moment Julian saw her, he reverted to the version of himself she knew best—indifferent and aloof.

As if someone had flipped a switch.

He frowned and asked: "Why are you here?"

The female doctor next to him turned her head, curiously looking Clara up and down: "And this is?"

Julian’s expression didn’t have the slightest ripple: "Clara."

No suffix, not "my wife."

Her name coming out of his mouth sounded like a patient's family member he had just met.

Clara took the initiative and reached out a hand.

"Hello, I am Clara, Julian’s wife, and a mortician at the Rivertown Funeral Home."

The female doctor's gaze lingered for a moment on Clara’s hand, which was suspended in mid-air, before moving away.

She didn't reach out; she just nodded: "Hello, I am Stephanie, the senior’s anesthesiologist."

Clara withdrew her hand and let it hang by her side.

Seeing this, Julian stepped in to save Stephanie from the awkwardness.

"The surgery is about to start. Go back and prepare."

Stephanie acknowledged and left.

After she was far away, Julian glanced sideways at Clara, his tone carrying a touch of reproach.

"There was no need to deliberately introduce your identity; it makes others uncomfortable."

Having said that, he walked straight in the direction Stephanie had gone.

Clara stood where she was, her fingers clenching and then loosening.

She had merely stated her profession openly, yet in his eyes, it had become her causing trouble for others.

She walked over to the processing window.

The nurse at the window recognized her, pushed the form over across the counter, refusing to hand it directly to her, and even secretly wiped her hands with a disinfecting wipe under the desk.

Clara vaguely heard her muttering to the nurse next to her.

"It’s that one from the funeral home again... stay away from her."

After filling out the form, she turned to leave, and the suppressed chatter of the two nurses reached her ears from behind.

"I just heard, she’s the wife of Dr. Julian from the cardiac surgery department."

"For real? How can Dr. Julian stand it? Someone who deals with dead bodies every day going home... it’s disgusting just thinking about it."

Clara didn't stop her pace.

She had been hearing such things for five years since she started working, and she had long since learned not to look back.

She returned to the funeral home to continue working. When she got off work, a torrential downpour suddenly started outside the window.

Raindrops pelted the glass, making a slapping sound.

Clara stood at the entrance, calling for over a dozen cars, but every one of them showed as ride declined.

Seeing the rain getting heavier, she took out her phone and called Julian over and over, but the calls always went unanswered.

Gritting her teeth, she dashed into the downpour and ran toward the direction of home.

Drenched by the rain, she was completely soaked by the time she arrived.

The living room lights were on, and a pink umbrella was placed at the entryway.

Julian was just walking out of the kitchen.

Clara looked at him, rainwater dripping from her clothes onto the floor.

"Have you been home the whole time?"

Julian turned to look at her, a trace of surprise in his tone.