Chapter 24

Does time heal all wounds?

A minute? An hour? Or a lifetime?

Evelyn stood by the window, watching a young couple laugh and play in the morning light. The boy clumsily handed her breakfast, and the girl’s laughter rang like wind chimes.

She suddenly remembered the first time Alexander brought her breakfast.

Back then, he was dressed in a tailored suit but blushed like a schoolboy as he pressed a steaming cup of soy milk into her hands.

"Dr. Carter, drink it while it's hot."

Now, he had finally found the person he truly wanted to bring breakfast to.

Vivian’s apartment was in the heart of the city, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the bustling streets below. Evelyn watched elderly joggers, housewives with grocery bags, and office workers rushing for buses.

The world kept turning. Only her time had stopped.

"Cry if you need to," Vivian said, handing her a cup of tea. "The walls are soundproof."

The fragrant steam curled upward. Evelyn stared at the tea leaves swirling in her cup.

Three years ago, on a rainy night, Alexander had shown up at her on-call room, drenched.

"Dr. Carter, can I borrow an umbrella?"

Later, he always said that rain had brought them together.

Now she wondered—maybe that rain had always been meant for someone else.

"I'm fine," Evelyn heard herself say. "I just need time to adjust."

Vivian scoffed. "Oh please. That’s not what you told me when I got dumped."

She remembered. Vivian had been sobbing on the rooftop, and Evelyn had gripped her wrist tight.

"Is a scumbag worth this?"

Now she was asking herself the same question.

Children’s laughter drifted in from outside. Evelyn recalled Alexander saying he wanted a daughter.

"One just like you," he’d murmured, brushing her hair aside. "Smart and gentle."

Now he could have that with the woman he truly loved.

Vivian suddenly shoved a pillow into her hands. "Go on, punch it. It’s new—soft enough."

Evelyn shook her head, but something warm trailed down her cheek.

The body was more honest than the heart.

Her fingers brushed the faint mark on her ring finger. Three years of marriage had left a deeper imprint than she’d realized.

"I always knew," she whispered. "Every time he drank, it was her name he called."

Vivian’s hand froze mid-air.

The spring breeze carried in the scent of flowers. Evelyn remembered the last time she and Alexander saw the cherry blossoms.

His phone had lit up then—Annabelle glaring on the screen.

"A colleague," he’d explained.

How ironic. Even their names felt like a cruel joke.

"Evelyn." Vivian’s voice turned serious. "Let’s go somewhere."

"Hm?"

"Tibet, Xinjiang, Antarctica—anywhere far." Her eyes sparkled. "The farther, the better."

Evelyn looked out the window. The sunlight was blinding, burning her eyes.

Funny how the world seemed unbearably bright when your heart was breaking.