Chapter 10

Emily Johnson dragged Ethan Miller away, her skirt brushing against my wheelchair.

She said she'd come back to explain, her voice laced with a panic I'd never heard before.

"Like I care," I muttered, fiddling with the IV tube, the plastic whispering between my fingers.

Sophia Williams crouched down to meet my eye level, the scent of antiseptic mingling with her faint perfume. "Does your heart still hurt?"

Her fingertip lightly tapped my chest.

I suddenly grabbed her hand and pressed it against my left side. "There's a hole here. We should go shopping to fill it."

She burst into laughter, tears still clinging to her lashes.

I knew she'd been crying in secret lately—the nurses said she often returned with red-rimmed eyes while I slept.

The mall's heating was cranked up high.

I curled up in the passenger seat with a baked potato, deliberately dripping syrup onto her newly replaced cashmere seat cover.

Sophia's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, but she stayed silent.

"Turn right," I said, pointing to the bridal shop with its glittering display.

She was getting married in spring—I'd secretly peeked at the invitation designs.

She slammed the brakes. "Lucas, you—"

"I want to see," I cut her off. "Now."

The clerk greeted us eagerly.

I picked out a mermaid-style satin gown for Sophia and a tailcoat for myself.

In the fitting room, we stood shoulder to shoulder before the mirror, the sequins on her dress digging into my skin.

"Doesn't it look…"

I lifted my phone, my throat tightening. "Like a brother sending his sister off to her wedding?"

She punched my back—lightly.

In the mirror, we were both smiling, something glistening at the corners of her eyes.

I paid in the end.

The thin receipt folded into a paper airplane, carried far by the wind when I tossed it out the window.

The taxi stopped at the cemetery gates.

I counted the steps to my mother's grave, snowflakes blurring her photo.

"Mom," I brushed off the snow. "I might be coming to see you soon."

The wind howled suddenly, like someone's sigh.

[Extra: The Withered Succulent]

Emily found the succulent when its soil had hardened into a crust.

She watered it carefully, her fingers staining brown.

It had been Lucas's treasure.

She remembered how he'd fuss over these plants in the afternoon light, his frame so thin he seemed to dissolve into the glow.

"Come back to life," she said to the empty living room, her voice shattering into echoes against the walls.

Ethan's text came then.

As the screen lit up, she almost saw Lucas looking up from the couch—the same expression he'd worn the last time she brought a man home.

Surveillance footage from the private club spread like wildfire in their circle.

In it, she slapped a woman, screaming hysterically, "My husband will be furious!"

No one reminded her that the husband she spoke of was now just an organ donor agreement.

Not until Ethan showed up with their old intimate photos.

The stairwell fight played out like a silent film.

When she fell, she spotted dried succulent leaves between the steps—just like the ones on Lucas's balcony.

The psychiatric ward's curtains were always half-drawn.

Emily clutched the tattered stuffed toy, her fingers tracing the hollow where its heart should've been.

"There was a heart here," she told the nurse. "I lost it."

Sometimes, she'd bolt upright in the dead of night and explain to the air, "I was getting my pregnancy test results that day."

Then she'd absently touch her flat stomach.

Moonlight spilled through the window, casting the dead succulent's shadow on the sill—a skeletal silhouette.