Chapter 7

"She didn't run. She died."

Grandma stood up abruptly, the movement making her dizzy. She swayed.

Dylan instinctively reached out to steady her, but Grandma recoiled in fear.

His hand hung in the air before slowly clenching into a fist, knuckles white.

"Died?"

He repeated the word, the hatred churning in his eyes again. "Then where is her body? You said she came to you in a dream, said she was cold and in pain. Then where did she die? How? Why, in three years, hasn't her body been found?"

His voice grew louder, sharper with each question, lashing at Grandma and at the remnants of my spirit.

"I... I don't know..." Grandma was rendered speechless by his interrogation, reduced to helpless tears. "She just told me she couldn't come back... She said she was cold..."

"A dream?" Dylan let out a scoffing laugh. He stood up, looking down at the trembling old woman. His tone was laced with undisguised mockery and doubt. "You expect me to believe in something that vague? I understand wanting to protect your own. But shielding a traitor... It's the greatest injustice to the friends who died, and to those left crippled."

"She was not a traitor," Grandma shouted with all her strength, breaking into a violent coughing fit, her aged face flushing red.

My heart ached so badly it felt about to shatter. I rushed up to him, screaming in his face, "Dylan, you bastard. Open your eyes. Does Grandma look like she's lying? I'm dead. I'm really dead. Why won't you just believe it?"

He couldn't hear me.

He only saw Grandma stubbornly defending me, using a ridiculous "dream" as an excuse to brush him off.

He watched Grandma cough until she could barely breathe, his eyes showing no softening, only deeper irritation and disbelief.

He probably thought this was all an act, a performance to help me hide more comfortably.

"Fine. Let's say she is dead." Dylan's voice was ice-cold. "Did she leave anything behind before she died? Say anything strange? See anyone unusual?"

Grandma just kept shaking her head, tears blurring her vision.

Dylan watched her for a long moment. Finally, as if he'd exhausted the last of his patience.

He took a deep breath, his tone reverting to its previous cold hardness. "I will find her. Whether she's dead or alive. If she's dead, I'll bring her ashes back and make her kneel in apology at Maverick's and the others' graves. If she's alive..."

He paused, a ruthless glint flashing in his eyes. "I'll personally put her behind bars. Or, execute her on the spot."

Execute her on the spot.

Five words. Like five sharp knives, shredding my last shred of hope.

There truly was no trace of our past left in him. Only bone-deep hatred.

Having said his piece, he spared no more glances for the broken woman in the chair. He turned and strode away.

His back was resolute, without a hint of hesitation.

The courtyard gate slammed shut behind him with a heavy clang. The sound finally shattered Grandma's already strained nerves.

She slumped in the wicker chair, like a flower withering instantly, leaving only choked, despairing sobs.

The sun was still warm. The yard was still quiet. But this place had become a prison of despair.

I floated beside Grandma, watching her thin shoulders shake with each sob, looking at the bag of supplies he'd left on the ground. The irony was bitter.

Dylan, you came with hatred, left behind so-called concern, and then used the cruelest words to push Grandma deeper into the abyss.

You talked about justice for your dead friends, but everything you did now tortured another innocent, desperate old lady.

Was this your idea of justice?

I hated his stubbornness, his blindness, how he was being played by Willow without even realizing it.

But no amount of hatred changed the situation.

I was dead. I couldn't speak the truth. He didn't believe a word Grandma said.

Was I just supposed to watch him hound her like this until her spirit completely broke?

Was I supposed to carry the stain of traitor forever, with no chance of redemption?

No.

I couldn't give up.

Even if just for Grandma, I had to do something.

My gaze drifted toward my old room.

There might still be traces of my life there.

Dylan's rough search last time... could he have missed something?

And Willow... why was she on the periphery of the command post?

That cup of water...

Fragmented memories swirled. A vague idea began to take shape.