He unscrewed the cap and poured all the white tablets into his palm—a full handful.

Without hesitation, using the half-cup of cold water on the desk, he tilted his head back and swallowed them all.

the pills stuck slightly in his throat; he swallowed with effort, coughing a few times.

Then, he picked up the worn rabbit plushie, held it tightly in his arms, and slowly slid down against the bedframe onto the floor.

The medication took effect quickly.

His consciousness began to blur, his body became heavy, and his breathing gradually became difficult.

Darkness surged in like a tide—gentle and irresistible—swallowing him whole.

The moment before he lost consciousness completely, he felt as if he had returned to an afternoon many years ago with perfect sunlight. A tiny Summer ran toward him, stuffed the rabbit plushie into his arms, and looked up with a small face and sparkling eyes: "Brother! Happy Birthday! I love Brother the most!"

"Summer..."

"I was wrong..."

"I gave you my finger back..."

"Now... I give you my life too..."

He murmured unconsciously, his voice growing lower and lower until it could no longer be heard.

The next morning, the part-time cleaner who came on schedule discovered the unconscious man. Terrified, she immediately called emergency services.

The ambulance wailed as it rushed him to the hospital for gastric lavage and resuscitation.

He was pulled back from the brink of death, but he remained unconscious, kept alive by machines in the intensive care unit.

Julian did not go to witness the emergency efforts for the older brother, nor did he inquire further about the Sterling family or Summer.

He left Switzerland. He did not return to his own family, nor did he go anywhere familiar.

He bought a one-way ticket to Vienna.

In that city world-renowned for music, on an inconspicuous small street near the Golden Hall, he found a flower shop that was hiring.

The owner was a plump Austrian lady with a kind smile.

"I can prune, I can change the water, I can wake up early, and I’m not afraid of getting dirty," Julian said in fluent German, his tone calm. "Pay me whatever you like."

The old lady sized him up. This young Eastern man was dressed appropriately and had an extraordinary temperament, yet a layer of unshakeable melancholy hung between his brows, and his eyes were hollow, as if he had lost something extremely important.

"Heartbroken?" the lady asked knowingly as she handed him a cup of hot coffee.

Julian took the coffee, feeling the warmth of the cup through his fingertips. He was silent for a moment, then nodded.

"I suppose so." He twitched the corners of his mouth into a smile that looked worse than crying. "It’s worse than that."

Chapter Thirty-Two

The old lady did not ask further, merely patting his shoulder. "Stay then, child. Flowers can heal everything."

Julian settled down in the flower shop.

He spoke very little, but his work was exceptionally meticulous—pruning stems, changing water, and cleaning the storefront with absolute precision.

In his spare time, he would sit on a small stool at the shop's entrance, staring at the magnificent temple of music across the street—the Golden Hall. He would watch it for a very long time, his eyes hollow, lost in unknown thoughts.

Every day before closing, he would select a bouquet of the freshest, most vibrant sunflowers from the shop, wrap them carefully, and walk to the main entrance of the Golden Hall. He would place them on a specific wooden bench that countless tourists had sat upon.

The first day, the second day... it was the same every single day.

The brilliant golden hue of the sunflowers remained bright and eye-catching even in the twilight, like tiny suns.

The flower shop owner finally couldn't contain her curiosity. As he was heading out with the sunflowers once again, she called out to him.

"Julian," the old lady pointed at the flowers in his arms and then at the Golden Hall. "Always sunflowers, every day. Who are they for? Is your girlfriend performing inside?"

The arms holding the bouquet tightened slightly. He turned his head, looking at the roof of the Golden Hall glowing under the setting sun. His gaze became extremely distant, as if piercing through time to see a girl from long ago—a girl holding a violin with a smile brighter than the sun, looking up and saying with a voice full of longing: "Julian, when I turn eighteen, my biggest wish is to be with you in the Vienna Golden Hall—I’ll play the violin, and you’ll listen!"

He shook his head, his voice very soft, scattering into the evening wind.

"No," he said. "They are for someone... I am no longer worthy of."

The old lady looked at him with a mix of understanding and confusion. In the end, she merely sighed softly and asked no more.

The days passed one by one.

Julian lived in the city of music like a silent shadow, yet he remained completely isolated from music itself.

He heard the street performers playing and the faint echoes of symphonies drifting from the Golden Hall. His expression remained as flat as still water; only in the depths of his eyes would a flicker of profound, incomprehensible pain occasionally flash by.

Until one month later, he saw a recruitment notice in an old newspaper at the shop—Doctors Without Borders was in urgent need of personnel with medical backgrounds to go to a region torn by war and suffering from extreme medical shortages.

Julian stared at that notice for a very, long time.

Then, he silently folded the newspaper and put it back.

The next day, he bid farewell to the flower shop owner.

The lady did not ask questions; she only gave him a warm hug and tucked a small bag of home-baked cookies into his hand.

"Take care, child. May the Lord bless you," she said.

Julian thanked her, shouldered his simple rucksack, and left the flower shop, leaving Vienna behind.

Before his departure, he went to the post office one last time.

He bought a simple envelope and a stamp, sat on a chair in the corner of the post office, and spread out a sheet of pure white stationery.

The pen tip hovered for a long time, the ink bleeding into a small dot on the paper.

What should he write?

Endless confessions? Belated love? Or that he was willing to spend the rest of his life atoning?

No, all of those were too light, and far too late.

He had defiled the word "love"; he was not worthy.

In the end, he only used all his strength to write three words neatly on the paper:

I am sorry.

Then, from the innermost layer of his wallet, he took out a well-preserved photograph with slightly worn edges.

In the photo was Summer at eighteen.

She was wearing a white dress, holding her beloved violin, standing in the sunlight and smiling brilliantly at the camera, her eyes filled with starlight.

He had taken that photo for her on her eighteenth birthday.

She had said it was her favorite photo.

He stared at the photograph for a long time, as if trying to carve that smile into the depths of his soul forever.

Then, he carefully placed the photo into the envelope along with the paper containing only three words. He sealed it, attached the stamp, and solemnly wrote the address of the Sterling manor in the recipient field.

He did not write a return address.

The moment he dropped it into the mailbox, he felt a sharp, suffocating pain spread from his heart to his entire body.

He knew this letter was like a stone dropped into the ocean; it might never be seen.

He also knew that this was the final and only explanation he could give her.

I am sorry.

For all the hurt, injustice, and betrayal I once gave you.

For the promise of the Golden Hall that could never be fulfilled.

And for the man named Julian, whom you have completely let go of, and who has finally decided to let go of himself and disappear entirely from your life.

The letter fell into the depths of the mailbox with a soft thud.

Julian turned away, his back to the mailbox and to that golden temple of music, merging into the bustling crowds of the Vienna streets.

The sunlight was just right, shining on this beautiful city and on all the hopeful futures that no longer had anything to do with him.

And he would walk toward the smoke, the blood, and the land of eternal atonement.

THE END