He fell asleep hugging this worn-out plushie every night.

Only then could he barely close his eyes, managing to grasp a sliver of what was now illusory warmth within the boundless regret and darkness.

He began to experience auditory hallucinations.

In the dead of night, he would always hear the faint, distant sound of a violin from the next room. Sometimes it was the cheerful "Spring," sometimes the sorrowful "Butterfly Lovers"—all pieces he had taught her hand-in-hand when she was a child.

He would snap awake and rush into the next room, only to find it empty, with nothing but cold walls.

He went to see a psychiatrist and was diagnosed with severe depression accompanied by acute post-traumatic stress disorder.

The doctor prescribed medication and instructed him to take it on time, communicate more with others, and try to start a new life.

The older brother took the pill bottle, thanked him, and turned to leave.

A new life?

His life had already ended three years ago, the moment he chose to believe Skylar and sent Summer to prison.

Everything that happened afterward was merely an extension of hell.

And now, he lived only as a shell carrying endless regret and pain, using the rest of his life to atone for a sin that could never be fully paid.

A week later, Ethan proactively arranged a meeting with the older brother and Julian.

The waiter served tea and exited quietly, closing the door behind him.

Only the three of them remained in the private room. The air was so still one could hear their breathing.

Ethan did not engage in small talk; he merely used his fingertips to push a velvet folder to the center of the table.

"Take a look. Caleb and Summer are getting married. This is the invitation."

The sentence was like a bolt from the blue, exploding in their ears.

Julian’s hand holding the invitation shook violently, the paper making a slight rustling sound.

A massive flood of dull pain mixed with sharp jealousy surged through his internal organs.

The older brother looked completely lost, as if he hadn't heard anything.

Ethan watched their desolate, mourning expressions with an indifferent face.

"Giving you this invitation is a courtesy for the sake of the past twenty years—a notification."

"It is not an invitation; it is a notification."

"Additionally, Summer asked me to tell you—"

"Everything in the past, she has let go."

"She does not hate, but she does not forgive."

"Please, from now on, withdraw completely from her life."

"This is her," Ethan looked at their suddenly constricted pupils and slowly uttered the final words, "last mercy."

No hate, but no forgiveness.

Withdraw completely.

The last mercy.

Every word was like a nail dipped in ice, hammered hard into the souls of the two men, pinning their last trace of unrealistic fantasy to the pillar of shame.

Julian’s face was frighteningly pale. He stared at Ethan, his voice hoarse and nearly broken. "Did she... really... say that?"

Ethan met his gaze without flinching, his eyes cold and certain.

"Yes."

"She also said," Ethan paused, seemingly recalling the expression of total release mixed with a trace of exhaustion Summer had when she said it, "if you still feel you owe her, then never appear before her again. That is the best compensation for her."

Having finished, he didn't give them another look. He picked up his coat from the back of the chair and walked straight to the door.

"President Sterling!" The older brother stood up abruptly. Because he moved too fast, he knocked over his chair, making a piercing sound.

His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice trembled. "I... I want to see her one more time... just once... I..."

"There's no need." Ethan stopped his footsteps but did not turn back, his voice as cold and hard as iron. "Give her, and yourself, one last bit of dignity."

"Dignity..." the older brother repeated the word as if he had heard a great joke. He began to laugh lowly—a laughter that was shrill and hopeless. "What dignity do I have left..."

Ethan ignored him, opened the door, and walked out.

The heavy door of the private room slowly closed, separating the two men sentenced to "death" from the world in silent despair.

The older brother collapsed back into his chair, still clutching the gold-embossed invitation. His fingertips were white from the pressure, nearly crushing the exquisite paper.

He stared fixedly at Summer’s smile in the photograph. Tears fell in large, sudden drops, soaking a corner of the invitation.

He was wrong.

He was catastrophically wrong.

He thought that by cutting off his finger, repenting day and night, and spending the rest of his life making amends, he might earn back a sliver of pity, or perhaps be allowed to watch her back from a distance.

But as it turned out, she had already walked far away, to a shore he could never reach in this life.

She wouldn't even give him her hatred anymore.

She gave him the last mercy—complete indifference and a command to "live well."

But a life without her—living was more agonizing than death.

Chapter Thirty-One

Julian remained silent.

He did not cry, but his face was as pale as a soul-less statue. He slowly reached out and gently pulled the invitation from the older brother’s trembling hand.

His movements were slow, carrying a sense of solemnity and farewell that was almost ritualistic.

He looked closely at the person in the photo, his gaze lingering greedily on Summer’s features. That gentle smile was like a red-hot iron, searing his heart.

Then, very, very lightly, he brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheek in the photo, his movement as gentle as if touching a fragile treasure.

Finally, he placed the invitation gently back on the table and slowly stood up.

He glanced at the older brother, who looked shell-shocked as if all his vitality had been drained. He said nothing, merely straightened his back—which had long been bent by regret—and walked out of the room step by step.

Every step felt as heavy as treading on the edge of a blade.

He knew it was time for him to leave.

To disappear completely from her world.

The night he received the invitation was exceptionally long and cold for the older brother.

He returned to the one-bedroom apartment that held only the rabbit plushie. He did not turn on the lights, instead sitting on the cold floor with his back against the bedframe. In his hand, he clutched the invitation that had been soaked by tears and then dried into a wrinkled mess.

Outside, the city’s neon lights flickered, casting shadows and light across his face through the window.

"Let go... no hate... but no forgiveness..."

"Withdraw completely..."

"The last mercy..."

Ethan’s words and Summer’s gentle, peaceful smile alternated in his mind, echoing and flashing.

Mercy...

Yes, she was merciful.

She hadn't driven him to a dead end, nor had she had his legs broken when he knelt and begged.

Yet it was precisely this mercy—this complete letting go and indifference—that made him more miserable than hatred or revenge ever could.

Hatred at least proved she still cared.

Indifference meant that he, along with his twenty years of absurdity and regret, could no longer stir even a ripple in her heart.

He didn't even have the qualification to be remembered.

The older brother laughed lowly, the sound echoing in the empty, dark room—eerie and desolate.

He stood up shakily, walked to the desk, and turned on the lamp.

The dim yellow light illuminated an old photo frame on the desk.

Inside was a photo of Summer when she was thirteen or fourteen. She had a ponytail, wore a school uniform, and was smiling brightly at the camera, her eyes crinkled into crescents. It was taken at her middle school graduation. He still remembered that he had specifically canceled a meeting to attend her ceremony. She had hugged her certificate and jumped into his arms, clamoring for a reward.

How wonderful.

Everything was so wonderful then.

But all of that beauty had been shattered by his own hands.

With a trembling hand, he picked up a pen and spread out a sheet of white paper.

The tip of the pen hovered over the paper for a long time without descending. Ink gathered and dripped, soaking into a small blot on the paper like a black, unhealable wound.

Finally, he began to write. The handwriting was messy and distorted, as if it took every ounce of his strength:

Summer:

I’m giving my life back to you.

In the next life, let me be your younger brother, and let you bully me for a lifetime.

There was no salutation, no signature—only those two short lines.

He set down the pen and reached into the back of a drawer for a pill bottle.

It was the sleeping medication the doctor had prescribed for him, which he had never taken properly.