Chapter 4

My heart felt clenched by an invisible fist, the pain suffocating.

She was still waiting for me to come home.

Even after Dylan's brutal accusations, even after Willow's venomous hints that I'd abandoned her for a life of ease, she still stubbornly believed I would return.

This absolute, unwavering trust now felt like the sharpest blade, carving me apart.

"Grandma... I couldn't come back... I really can't..."

I knelt beside her, watching her painstakingly clean up the mess, watching her fumble because she couldn't see clearly, watching her stumble because her legs were unsteady. A crushing sense of helplessness and guilt threatened to swallow what was left of me whole.

I hated this.

I hated my powerlessness.

I hated whoever had killed me.

I hated Dylan for his blind judgment.

And I hated Willow most of all, for her cruel, heart-piercing tricks.

That so-called evidence?

A leak from an encrypted channel?

My last mission before I died... The memory was shrouded in a thick, blood-red fog. I only remembered the emergency departure signal, Dylan's grim profile, and...

I remembered Willow being on the periphery of the command post that day. She had even smiled and handed me a cup of water, wishing me luck...

A splitting headache. The memories after that were fragmented, just endless darkness and a cold, penetrating pain.

Could the problem really have started with me?

But how could I had possibly leaked the route?

Those were lives on the line, Maverick's, Thomas's, so many friends I fought alongside.

No. Impossible.

I might not have been the smartest or the strongest, but I would never have betrayed my oath or my friends.

It was Willow.

It had to be.

Her hypocritical act. Her words, seemingly casual yet perfectly crafted to guide and accuse.

And the way she looked at me, that hint of jealousy and malice, thinly veiled beneath her gentle facade.

I used to think she was just a bit spoiled and petty. I never looked deeper.

But now, connecting the dots, everything felt wrong.

That blind fool, Dylan. That bastard. He believed her over me.

In the days that followed, Grandma grew even more silent.

She still cooked, still made enough for two, still set two places at the table, talking to the empty chair.

She spoke even less. Her eyes grew more distant. Sometimes she'd sit in her wicker chair all day, forgetting to eat.

I stayed by her side every second, as anxious as an ant on a hot griddle.

I was terrified she would break, that worry over my situation would make her sick.

Dylan didn't reappear, but I knew he wouldn't just let it go.

He was like a leopard lying in wait, ready to pounce again at any moment and shatter Grandma's already fragile world.

My fears came true.

A few days later, in the afternoon, Grandma picked up her shopping basket and slowly made her way toward the small town market to buy some groceries.

She was listless, her steps unsteady even on a good day. Crossing the street, she seemed particularly distracted.

A motorcycle blared its horn, speeding past. Startled, Grandma stumbled and fell sideways.

"Grandma."

I screamed in terror, instinctively lunging to catch her.

It was useless, as always.

I watched as her forehead struck the stone curb. Blood instantly welled up, staining her grey hair and wrinkled cheek.

People gathered, helping her up, someone called an ambulance.

Grandma's eyes were closed, her face pale, the blood on her forehead a horrifying sight.

She still clutched that old basket. A few shriveled oranges rolled out.

In that moment, I felt my spirit shatter.

Terror and rage washed over me.

If Dylan and Willow hadn't come and caused that scene, hadn't upset her so badly, she wouldn't have been this distracted. She wouldn't have gotten hurt.

It was their fault.

I stayed by Grandma's side, following the ambulance to the town hospital.

I watched her be wheeled into the ER, watched the doctors and nurses rush around. And I could do nothing. I was just a ghost pacing the hallway, praying she'd be okay.

Grandma needed to stay in the hospital for observation.

She was in a three-bed room, stitches on her forehead, bandaged, her face still pale as she drifted in and out of sleep.

I hovered by her bedside, watching her frown even in her uneasy rest, my heart twisted into knots.

That's when the two people I least wanted to see appeared at the door of the room.

Dylan and Willow.

Dylan looked as stern as ever, though a trace of something like agitation flickered between his brows.

He stood at the threshold, not entering immediately, his gaze fixed on Grandma's frail form on the bed. His expression was unreadably complex.