After a careful examination, the chief physician showed a trace of relief and told Ethan and Caleb cautiously: "Miss Sterling’s recovery is better than expected. Although... playing the violin at a professional level is impossible, as that requires extreme flexibility and strength. However, after systematic rehabilitation training, there is no problem recovering over 70% of daily self-care functions. Even... in the future, it is possible to play some simple instruments that don't require complex fingering, such as playing simple piano pieces."

Playing the piano.

Simple pieces.

For a former genius violinist, this was no different from falling from the clouds to the valley floor.

But for Summer, who had walked in the darkness for too long and had almost forgotten what light looked like, this tiny possibility was like an extremely faint but truly existing light.

Caleb relayed the doctor’s words to her exactly as they were, without any embellishment.

Summer leaned against the head of the bed, looking at her hands, which were still wrapped in gauze and oddly shaped, for a very long time.

So long that Caleb thought she wouldn't speak again.

Then, he saw a tear fall without warning from her lowered eyelashes, hitting the snow-white gauze and soaking into a small dark stain.

Then came a second drop, a third...

She made no sound, just wept quietly, her shoulders trembling almost imperceptibly.

It wasn't a wail or hysteria. It was a grievance and sadness that had been suppressed and buried for too long—so long that even she thought it had dried up—finally finding a tiny outlet and flowing out quietly.

For those hands that could never play the violin again.

And for these hands that could still barely move, and perhaps in the future, could clumsily touch piano keys.

Caleb didn't say "don't cry," nor did he hand her a tissue.

He just walked over, sat by the bed, and reached out, gently but firmly pulling her into his arms.

His embrace was warm, carrying a crisp and pleasant scent; it wasn't particularly broad, yet it was exceptionally steady.

Summer stiffened for a moment, then the suppressed trembling seemed to find a support. She buried her face in his shoulder, and her tears soon soaked his high-quality shirt.

He didn't speak, just used his hand to gently pat her back over and over, as if comforting a child who had suffered and finally returned home.

After an unknown amount of time, Summer’s sobbing gradually ceased.

She raised her head from his arms, her eyes and the tip of her nose red like a rabbit's, but her gaze was no longer an empty void; it was clouded with moisture, yet there seemed to be a tiny, faint light.

"Caleb," her voice still carried a heavy nasal tone, very light yet exceptionally clear, "I... I want to try."

Caleb looked at her, and in the depths of his frozen eyes, a very shallow, almost invisible smile rippled.

"Okay," he nodded, his voice steady and gentle as ever. "We’ll try. There’s no rush, Summer. Life is long; we can take it slowly."

Life is long.

We can take it slowly.

These words were like a tiny seed falling into Summer’s long-barren and cracked heart.

She didn't know if it would sprout or if it could bloom, but at least the soil seemed no longer so cold and hard.

It was at this moment that Ethan arrived, bringing the metal box and the blood-stained, messily written letter.

Summer listened as Ethan, in a level tone, recounted everything that had happened back home.

Julian's press conference, Skylar being condemned by everyone, the family’s precarious state, and... the matter of the severed finger.

There was no expression on her face, but when she heard "the left pinky finger," her long eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly.

But it was only once.

Ethan placed the letter and the box on the table in front of her, saying nothing more than: "The items are here; how to handle them is for you to decide. If you don't want to see them, I’ll take them and throw them away."

Chapter Twenty-Three

Summer’s gaze fell on the small metal box.

She reached out, her fingertips still trembling uncontrollably, and slowly opened the box.

Inside the sealed bag, a pale section of a finger lay quietly among ice cubes.

The flesh and bone at the cut were clearly visible.

Beside her, Caleb frowned almost imperceptibly and looked away.

Summer, however, looked very carefully for a full minute.

Then, she reached out and picked up the thin letter next to it.

Unfolded it.

There was only one sentence.

Summer, I’m sorry.

Brother... I am returning what I owe you.

Her gaze lingered on the word "Brother" for a long time. That word had been written halfway and then heavily crossed out, leaving only a blurred ink blot and the subsequent, cautious "I."

In the end, he didn't have the face to call himself "Brother" again.

As Summer looked at it, the corners of her mouth suddenly twitched as if she wanted to laugh, but she didn't. Finally, it turned into an extremely faint, cold curve.

She casually folded the letter and handed it, along with the metal box, to Ethan.

"Burn it," she said, her voice calm and level. "It’s an eyesore."

Ethan took them, nodded, asked no questions, and turned to deal with it.

Caleb looked at her calm profile and asked softly, "Are you sad?"

Summer shook her head, her gaze shifting to the snowline of the distant mountains outside the window, which were currently bathed in the golden sunset.

"I don't feel much," she paused and added, "It’s like seeing a somewhat bloody social news story that has nothing to do with me."

Her tone was too flat—so flat that it made Caleb's heart ache slightly.

Not for the older brother, but for her.

How much disappointment and harm must one experience to sharpen a former intimacy into such thorough indifference?

He reached out and gently covered her hand resting on her knee. Her hand was still very cold and weak after the injury.

"Don't think about it anymore," he said. "What would you like to eat tonight? The chef said some very fresh white asparagus arrived by air today."

Summer turned her head to look at him, the sunset glow falling on her face and gilding her pale skin with a warm color.

She thought for a moment and said, "Okay. Can I also have a cream of mushroom soup?"

"Of course," Caleb smiled.

It seemed that everything was moving in a slightly better direction.

Summer’s hands were slowly recovering, and her spirit, under Caleb’s daily companionship and Ethan’s meticulous protection, was thawing bit by bit from the frozen state.

However, the family back home had completely fallen into hell.

On the same day Summer received the severed finger and the letter, the final window for Skylar’s transplant closed completely.

Late that night, her vital signs deteriorated sharply, and the monitoring equipment emitted a piercing alarm.

Doctors and nurses rushed in for a final rescue, but it was beyond their power.

At 3:17 AM, Skylar’s electrocardiogram stretched into a straight, cold line.

Before death, she had a brief, eerie moment of clarity. Her eyes, already murky, stared fixedly at the older brother guarding the bedside. There were no tears, only deep-seated malice and resentment. Using her last strength, she grabbed his hand, her nails digging deep into his flesh, and hissed:

"Brother... I hate you..."

"I hate Summer too..."

"Even as a ghost... I won't let you go..."

Having said that, she suddenly convulsed, her pupils dilated, and her hand fell weakly.

Skylar was dead.

Carrying endless resentment and curses, she died in the winter of her twenty-second year.

The older brother stood there, watching as the medical staff silently removed all the tubes from her body and slowly covered her head with a white cloth.

He didn't cry; there was almost no expression on his face. He only felt a void in his heart, with cold wind whistling through it.

He felt that his tears might have already dried up the moment he cut off his own finger.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Skylar’s death didn't cause much of a stir in the chaotic household.

Upon hearing the news, the mother shrieked and became completely mentally deranged. She was transferred to the psychiatric ward, alternating between crying and laughing all day.

The father’s hair turned white overnight. He struggled to handle his daughter's funeral and the company's mess. For his son, he only felt heart-felt disappointment and exhaustion, with no energy left to scold or beat him.

Julian disappeared after the press conference. His family claimed he needed rest, but they had secretly sent him abroad to lay low.

It seemed everything would return to silence, leaving only time to slowly lick the wounds.

Until half a month later, on a seemingly peaceful afternoon.

Accompanied by Caleb, Summer went to a professional rehabilitation center in the city for her twice-weekly intensive training.