As if possessed, he went home, opened that nearly forgotten secret social media account, and wrote the first line: "Day 1 of our reunion."

He became addicted, recording every meeting with Macy, every conversation, every flicker of emotion.

He never intended to separate from Andrea.

Andrea was his wife, his present and his future; he never doubted that.

He even felt that once the novelty and complex emotions of the reunion passed, everything would return to normal, and things between him and Andrea would be even better.

Andrea’s face became paler and more blurred.

She looked at him with hollow eyes, as if separated by thousands of miles.

He reached out to catch her, but she slipped through his fingers like sand, drifting further away.

"Andrea—!"

He cried out her name in terror, a hoarse scream torn from his throat.

"Mr. Julian? Mr. Julian? Wake up!"

The physical touch and sounds of reality forced their way into the dream.

Julian snapped his eyes open. The blinding white light forced him to close them again instantly.

He was lying in a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages. A nurse was leaning over him with concern.

"You're awake? How do you feel? Does anything hurt particularly bad?" the nurse asked.

Julian didn't bother to answer. His eyes searched the room frantically.

"The... car accident..." Julian asked hoarsely.

"Yes, you were in an accident," the nurse said while checking his IV. "It was a stroke of luck, really. The impact was mostly on the driver's side, but the airbags deployed in time. You all escaped with minor injuries—just some scrapes and mild concussions. You’ll be fine after a few days of observation. Your mother-in-law is in shock and has some bruising; she needs rest."

Julian’s heart did not settle. "Where is my wife?" He suddenly grabbed the nurse’s wrist, his eyes locked onto hers, his voice trembling with urgency and fear. "Where is Andrea? Is she... is she alive? Which ward is she in? I need to see her!"

The nurse winced at his grip. She tried to pull away but couldn't. A look of pity and hesitation crossed her face.

She hesitated for a moment before speaking in the calmest tone possible: "Mr. Julian, please try to stay calm. Ms. Andrea passed away due to late-stage stomach cancer. It happened last night, close to midnight."

Buzz—!

Julian’s vision went black. The images from his dream merged heartlessly with reality.

A metallic sweetness suddenly rushed up his throat. Every bit of light vanished from his sight, the strength drained from his body, and his hand slipped powerlessly from the nurse’s arm.

Chapter 13

By the time Julian regained consciousness again, it was the following afternoon.

He turned his head with difficulty.

Andrea’s mother was awake, leaning back against her bed and staring hollowly out the window. Tear tracks crossed her face; she looked as though she had aged ten years overnight.

Andrea’s father sat silently beside her, holding her hand, his brow furrowed and his eyes bloodshot.

Macy was there too, her face still pale, her head lowered to hide her expression.

A doctor in a white coat entered, followed by a nurse.

The doctor looked at the group. "Are you all awake? How are you feeling?"

No one answered.

The doctor paused before continuing: "Mr. Julian, as the next of kin, you need to handle the paperwork as soon as possible, identify the body, and decide on the arrangements."

A crack finally appeared in Martha's hollow eyes, leaking out immense panic and disbelief. "No, impossible. My Andrea... I want to see her! I want to see her right now!"

She threw back the covers, stumbling as she tried to get out of bed. Arthur and Macy hurried to support her.

"Mom! Calm down! You aren't well yet!" Macy cried.

"Let go of me! I want to see my daughter! I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" Martha struggled like a madwoman, her strength surprisingly great.

Julian watched this in silence. He didn't stop them; instead, he pushed himself up. "I’m going too," he said hoarsely.

The staff led them expressionlessly to a numbered cold storage unit.

"This is it. Please confirm." The staff member pulled out a drawer.

A cold white mist drifted out.

Trembling, Martha shuffled forward step by step.

When she saw the bloodless face with closed eyes, so thin it was almost unrecognizable, she froze.

It was Andrea.

Yet it wasn't the Andrea of her memory.

The daughter in her memory might not have been dazzling, but she was always gentle and quiet, with a healthy complexion and soft hair.

The person before her had a face as grey as plaster, deeply sunken cheeks, and bloodless, cracked lips. Her hair was pitifully thin, with a few withered yellow strands clinging to her forehead.

She lay there so quietly.

"An... Andrea?" Martha reached out a trembling hand, wanting to touch that face, but her fingertips hovered in the air, not daring to descend.

She stared blankly for a long time before suddenly erupting into a shriek so agonizing it didn't sound human:

"Ah—!!! Andrea! My daughter!!"

She collapsed against the side of the unit, tears and bile flowing freely. She nearly went limp, held up only by Arthur’s firm grip.

She beat against the cold metal edge of the drawer, crying her heart out, repeatedly screaming: "This isn't real! It's not real! My Andrea is so young! How could she die! How is it possible!!"

A nearby nurse, unable to watch, explained softly: "Ma'am, please accept our condolences. With late-stage stomach cancer, the final stages are very painful. Patients have difficulty eating and suffer severe pain. Chemotherapy also leads to hair loss and extreme weight loss. Surely the family must have noticed some of these symptoms?"

Chapter 14

Julian shuddered violently. The images he had deliberately ignored flooded back uncontrollably.

Andrea’s increasingly pale face, the way she always held her stomach saying she felt unwell, her thinning body, her exhausted eyes, and the occasional expression of suppressed pain.

And what about him?

He was writing a "reunion" diary, accompanying Macy to dinner and shows, blaming Andrea for ruining a date when she fainted, and leaving her alone in her moment of greatest need for the sake of Macy’s dog.

"Noticed... did we notice?" Julian murmured to himself, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, yet carrying endless remorse.

Martha’s crying stopped abruptly.

She also remembered. She remembered her daughter’s pale face and frail figure on her birthday. She remembered thinking Andrea looked "gloomy" and "unlucky." She remembered focusing only on piling food into Macy’s bowl while dismissing Andrea as "difficult" and "pretentious."

Remorse made her cry until she could barely breathe.

Julian looked at Andrea’s face in the cold unit—a face so peaceful it was almost indifferent. The irritation, pain, and unvented rage he had suppressed for so long finally broke through the breaking point.

He suddenly turned toward Martha, who was sobbing uncontrollably. His voice was hoarse, dripping with irrepressible fury and agony:

"Now you know how to be sad? Now you know how to cry? Where were you when she was alive? Every time you saw her, did you ever give her a kind look? She worked herself to the bone to earn money, lived frugally, and gave everything to this family—did she ever get a single kind word from you in return? On your birthday, with a table full of food, was there a single dish she could eat? That birthday gift she bought for you with the last of her money, that silk scarf—you used it to tie up a dog the very next day!!!"

He roared the last sentence, his voice echoing through the cold morgue.

Martha’s crying ceased instantly. She looked up, her face a mess of tears, but her eyes held a blank shock. "A scarf? What dog? That scarf... isn't it safely at home?"

Her gaze turned toward Macy, who was standing nearby, her face deathly pale.

Macy instinctively took a half-step back, her eyes darting away.

Martha saw her guilty reaction and then looked at the dog in her arms. In a daze, she recalled a scene: Macy holding the dog's leash, with something light-colored tied around the dog's neck.

She suddenly broke free from Arthur’s support and stumbled toward Macy. Her thin hand gripped Macy’s arm, nails nearly digging into the flesh, her voice shaking uncontrollably: "Macy, tell me. That scarf... the scarf Andrea gave me... did you... did you give it to Snowy..."

Macy winced at the pain. Seeing the near-collapsed madness and interrogation in her mother’s eyes, she turned pale with fright, her words becoming incoherent: "I didn't... Mom, listen to me, there were several similar boxes in your cupboard covered in dust. I thought you didn't want them."

Martha stumbled backward, hitting the cold morgue unit with a dull thud.

She didn't feel the pain. She just stared at Macy, tears flowing silently and frantically, her voice as light as a whisper.