chapter 7

It's all behind me now.

When I woke, sunlight flooded the hospital room, spilling across the sheets in soft gold. I touched my stomach—flat, light, hollow. The emptiness should have hurt, but instead there was an odd calm, like I'd finally surfaced from deep water and could breathe again.

My mother sat beside me, peeling an apple with slow, deliberate strokes. "The doctor says you're recovering beautifully," she said, handing me a slice. "Don't think about anything else for now—just heal."

I bit into the fruit; the sweetness hit my tongue and almost burned. "Mom," I whispered, "I want to move to another city."

The knife paused. She looked at me for a long second, then nodded, her smile gentle but tired. "Wherever you go, I'll come with you."

The day I left that city, the sky was an impossible blue—mockingly perfect. I rolled my suitcase through the station, the crowd a blur of noise and movement. Then I saw him.

Edward Jackson.

He looked thinner, worn out, dark circles bruising his eyes. His white coat hung off him like a ghost of what he used to be. In his hand was a crumpled sheet of paper. When our eyes met, he broke into a run.

"Maria!" he shouted, nearly stumbling, "Please—let me explain! Daisy's illness—it was fake! She lied to me!"

He thrust the paper into my hands—a medical report. Normal readings. Stable vitals. No evidence of cardiac disease. The only abnormality listed: Side effects of prolonged psychiatric medication.

His voice cracked, "I found out yesterday. She admitted it—she just wanted to keep me close. Maria, I was blind. Please, give me another chance." He grabbed my arm, desperation flooding his eyes, "Let's start over. I'll make it right this time, I swear—"

"Edward." My tone was quiet, but it sliced through his words like glass, "Does it even matter now?"

He froze, his breath visible in the cool air.

"Whether she was sick or not doesn't change what happened," I said, "You still left me—on our wedding day, in front of everyone. When I needed you most, you protected her. That's the truth." I looked at him, my voice steady. "I'm moving forward. You should too."

For a heartbeat, the whole station seemed to hold its breath. Then the announcement blared, breaking the silence: All passengers for Train 16, please proceed to Platform 3.

I turned and walked away. Didn't look back.

Inside the train, I found a window seat. As it pulled out of the station, the skyline of the city—our city—slid by in fragments: glass, steel, clouds, gone. Six years of love and ruin shrinking to nothing.

My phone buzzed. An unknown number. Probably him.

"Maria, I'll wait for you. Always."

I stared at it until the words blurred, then deleted the message and blocked the number. The act felt final, clean.

Sunlight spilled through the glass, warm against my face. I put on my headphones, turned the music up, and watched the landscape race by. For the first time in years, I didn't know what came next—and that felt like freedom.

I settled in a small southern town and took a job at the local library. The days there moved slowly: sorting books, dusting shelves, greeting the same few readers. Sometimes the silence was so deep I could hear my heartbeat echo in it.

Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

Then one morning, I noticed the new flower shop across the street. Rows of succulents in neat lines, sunlight gleaming on their waxy leaves. The owner was tall, thin, a shadow of the man I once loved.

Edward.

He stood among the plants, trimming stems with a steady hand, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the library windows.

I pretended not to see him.

Those succulents—we used to line them up on our windowsill. He once said he wanted the sunlight to reach every leaf, just like our days together. Later, he couldn't even be bothered to wipe away the dust. Who was he tending them for now?

For three months, he didn't speak to me. But every morning when I arrived at work, there was a small pot of succulents by the library door. Different kinds—every one I used to love.

I told the old man at the front desk to throw them out. He just sighed, "Poor guy looks heartbroken."

Pitiful, I thought. But aren't we all?

After that, the succulents stopped. The shop changed overnight, exploding into color—sunflowers everywhere, a field of gold spilling out onto the street.

One evening, I worked late, sorting through returns long after closing. When I finally stepped outside, the sky had opened up. Rain fell in hard, silver sheets, cold enough to sting. I lifted my bag over my head and started to run—

—when an umbrella suddenly appeared above me.