The barely healed wounds on his back tore open, staining his hospital gown with fresh blood.
Jack gritted his teeth, his eyes bloodshot, forcing himself to stand again. But his strength failed him, and he collapsed once more, unconscious.
Elliot sighed heavily and turned to the staff nearby. “You two, carry him back to bed. Keep a close eye on him, and make sure he focuses on recovering. Don’t let him leave.”
As the staff hurried to obey, Elliot fished out a small bottle of pills and swallowed a few, steadying his own frayed nerves.
Elliot’s health had been poor for years; his retreat to the mountains was meant for recovery. Yet, despite his age and fragile condition, he found himself pulled back into handling these troubles.
Now lying in a hospital bed in the room next door, he allowed the doctors and nurses to examine him.
Three days later, Jack’s condition had improved enough for him to attempt another escape. But, as before, he didn’t get far before Elliot’s men caught him and dragged him back.
“Jack, let it go.”
Dressed in a hospital gown, Elliot’s complexion was pallid, and his once imposing figure looked frail.
Jack stopped in his tracks, silent, no longer attempting to flee.
“Jack, I don’t have much time left,” Elliot continued, his tone heavy. “I don’t know how long I’ll be around to guide you. So, as my dying wish, I’m asking you—don’t go looking for Freya anymore. Let her go. And stop tormenting yourself.”
Hearing this, Jack lowered his gaze, his expression unreadable.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally forced out a strained response. “Fine. I won’t go after her anymore.”
Elliot exhaled deeply as if a weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. But the relief seemed to sap the last of his strength, and his body slumped against the bed.
Sitting by his grandfather’s bedside, Jack solemnly vowed, “Grandfather, I’ll take care of the family and the business. I won’t… I won’t go to see Freya again.”
After staying with Elliot through his final days, Jack’s demeanor grew colder and more distant.
When Freya was still in his life, there was warmth in him, an occasional glimmer of a smile. But now, a perpetual chill seemed to radiate from him, his presence frozen and unyielding.
Jack became like a machine, dedicating himself entirely to work. Apart from routine hospital check-ups, he practically lived at the office.
Under his leadership, the company flourished, reaching new heights.
The once-envied love story he shared with Freya slowly faded from memory, known to only a few.
Yet Jack never removed his wedding ring. Whenever someone asked about his marital status, he would smile warmly and say, “I’m married. We’re deeply in love. She’s waiting for me at home, so I need to finish up and head back early.”
But in truth, he rarely returned to that cold, empty house.
Without Freya, it was no different from any other place.
Those in the know thought he had lost his mind; those who weren’t assumed he was the perfect family man.
Many women tried to get close to him, hoping to win his favor, but he turned them all down without exception. To silence the gossip, he adopted a gifted young boy and raised him as his own, pouring his energy into mentoring him.
Twenty years later, the boy had grown into a capable man, ready to take on the world. Jack entrusted him with the company and quietly left for Florin on his own.
Standing outside Freya’s inn, Jack thought to himself, “Grandfather, I’ve honored your wish. I haven’t seen her in twenty years. Now, I just want to fulfill my final wish.”
The familiar sound of wind chimes greeted him, and this time, the inn’s door was open. A small chalkboard nearby read: “Open for business. Welcome.”
Knock, knock.
He rapped lightly on the door.
“Do you have any available rooms?”
A young, mixed-race girl inside the inn called out toward the back room, “Mom, someone’s here to check in!”
The moment Freya stepped out, Jack panicked and fled.
He no longer had the courage to face her. She had a new family, a new life—one that no longer included him.
Close to her inn, Jack bought a small storefront and transformed it into a post office where people could write letters to their past selves. Even though he knew those letters would never be sent, visitors often stopped by to pour their thoughts onto paper, addressing the versions of themselves they wished they could reach.
Jack wrote one himself, just a few simple words, “Treat Freya better.”
Their shops were only two streets apart, yet not once did their paths cross.
Even when Jack later learned that the mixed-race girl was Freya’s adopted daughter, he never approached her. Instead, he kept his distance, stealing occasional glimpses from afar and relying on others to share bits of news about her life.
