"Beep, beep..."

In the quiet, a soft sound crept into her ears, growing clearer with each second.

Lydia's eyes snapped open. She looked around, only to realize she was in a hospital.

"Oh my goodness, Lydia! You're finally awake! I was so worried!"

She turned her head and saw Martha walking in. The moment Martha saw her awake, she lit up and immediately ran to call the doctor.

Lydia felt a tiny warmth rise in her chest-it had to be Martha who found her passed out and brought her here.

"Hang on, Lydia, the doctor's coming right now." Martha gently stroked her forehead with worry in her voice. "What happened to you, huh? I was only gone for one day!"

-Thank you, Martha.

Lydia gave her a small smile in response, not intending to explain anything.

Martha had known Lydia long enough to understand she rarely asked for help, always keeping troubles to herself. Her heart ached a little more seeing that faint smile.

"Is Miss Abbott awake?" Just then, someone opened the door with a gentle voice.

A tall young doctor stepped inside, a calm and friendly smile on his face.

"Doctor, how's Lydia doing?" Martha quickly stepped up, her voice full of concern.

"No need to worry. She's just a bit too weak and caught a chill, which led to a fever," he said kindly.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Martha finally let out a sigh of relief.

He gave a brief smile, walked over to Lydia and said, "Miss Abbott, I'm Michael Shaw, your attending physician. Feeling any better today? Let me check you over real quick."

Lydia glanced at him, nodded slightly, but didn't speak.

Most people didn't understand sign language, so when dealing with strangers, Lydia usually chose to keep silent if she could.

Michael didn't mind at all. He just smiled and started his check-up.

As he examined her, he found himself slightly surprised-this girl was far too cooperative.

Whatever he asked her to do, she did. Quiet, obedient, like a porcelain doll.

The more he observed, the more something felt off... but he decided not to comment.

After organizing the examination tools, he took out the medication. "Miss Abbott, your recovery is coming along well. We'll keep you one more night for observation, and if everything looks good, you can be discharged tomorrow. But before you're fully recovered, you still need to take your meds properly."

Lydia frowned slightly at the sight of the pills. Just the look of them made her cringe a little.

She really couldn't stand taking medicine-the bitterness lingered on her tongue forever.

She didn't expect, though, that her tiny reaction would catch Michael's sharp eyes.

He paused for a moment, then reached into his pocket. A second later, he pulled out a toffee.

She blinked, caught off guard by the candy.

Noticing her wide-eyed stare, Michael smiled faintly. "Bit of sweetness with the bitter. Be good and take your meds, okay?"

After placing the candy next to the medication, he stood up and walked out of the room.

Lydia, however, just sat there, zoning out a little.

That voice... it sounded so familiar.

Somewhere in her memories, long ago, someone with the same gentle tone had said something just like that to her...

But that was so many years ago. That person was long gone now.

Her eyes lowered slightly, a shadow of sadness flickering across her gaze.

She glanced back at the pills and the candy, hesitated a bit, then finally swallowed the medicine.

Just as Michael stepped out the door, Martha followed him quickly.

"Doctor, are you sure Lydia's going to be okay?" she asked, worried.

"Don't worry," Michael replied with a light smile. "If there were anything wrong, I wouldn't be talking about discharge."

"Oh, thank goodness! By the way, Doctor, my Lydia... she's a little different. She doesn't talk. So just now... please don't take it the wrong way."

"She doesn't talk?"

Michael paused, a bit surprised. Something clicked in the back of his mind. He instinctively turned and glanced into the room.

He saw Lydia wincing slightly as she forced down all the pills in one go. Then she quickly unwrapped the toffee, popped it in her mouth, and closed her eyes with a little satisfied smile. Her tiny feet gently swung beneath the blanket, radiating quiet joy.

Seeing that, a warmth bloomed in Michael's chest, and he couldn't help but chuckle softly.

In that moment, she reminded him of a little girl from his childhood.

A sweet, quiet girl who used to beam with delight whenever she got candy.

A girl who, just like Lydia, couldn't speak.

Realization hit him, dragging him out of the memory. His eyes turned back to Lydia with a deep and searching gaze.

After all these years...

Could it really be you?

At night, although Lydia's fever had subsided, her body started heating up again.

In that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, she vaguely sensed someone pushing the door open and stepping into the room, staring at her.

She struggled to open her eyes, trying to see who it was-but no matter how hard she tried, their face stayed blurry.

People always think too much when they're sick.

Once again, Lydia recalled how strangely Henry had behaved that night. The frustration welled up in her chest, and she couldn't help thinking about her long-deceased parents. Almost unconsciously, she started mumbling their names.

Completely unaware that the very person on her mind was now standing right by the bed.

Henry stood there, towering, cold as ice. His gaze bore down on Lydia, whose cheeks were tinted with an unhealthy flush.

His expression was tight, one hand buried in his pocket, the other gripping his cane a little too hard.

Ever since the day he almost lost control in front of Lydia, he'd done his best to avoid thinking about her. Even when he found out she was hospitalized with a fever, he bit it down and stayed away.

If she hadn't insisted on taking in that stray dog and dragging it out for walks come rain or shine, none of this would've happened.

Again and again, he reminded himself: she brought this on herself.

And yet... he still couldn't stop that quiet, lingering worry deep inside.

So in the end, here he was, slipping into her room for a quick look.

But now, seeing her tangled in feverish murmurs, his chest tightened for a second.

He knew she couldn't speak, but he still tilted forward slightly, eyes fixed on the way her lips moved.

Just as Henry leaned closer, his expression shifted-his face darkening, jaw tightening, eyes flashing with barely restrained fury.

She was mumbling something, voice hoarse and weak. "Dad...?"

His body tensed. For a moment, he froze. Then, without thinking, he grabbed her wrist and gave it a sharp shake.

"Lydia. Wake up."

No response.

He bent closer, voice low and cold. "I said wake up."

Still nothing.

His patience snapped. Without a word, he crossed the room and yanked the curtains wide open.

Sunlight slashed into the room like a blade-sharp, white, and merciless.

Lydia flinched.

A second later, she gasped awake, blinking against the sudden light, breath shallow. "Ah...!"

She struggled to sit up, confused and weak. "Cough-cough..."

Her eyes finally found him, Henry, his silhouette framed by the harsh daylight pouring in behind him.

His expression was unreadable. Cold. Still.

"You-why are you here?" her voice cracked.

"Why can't I be?" he said, voice low. "Still dreaming of your killer dad, huh? Even in your sleep?"

His words hit her like a punch to the gut, sharp and cruel.

With her lips trembling, Lydia tried to fight back, tears burning in her eyes.

"What's that supposed to mean? Yeah, he caused a tragedy, but he's still my dad. Why can't I remember him?!"

She should've been used to Henry's constant sarcasm by now, but no matter how many times it happened, she never saw it coming.

"You really forgot, didn't you?" His voice deepened, clenched with rage. "My dad died in this damn hospital ten years ago. And I lost my leg here too-ten years ago! And you think you have any right to sit here and mourn your killer father in the same place?"

His voice shook with fury, his breath unsteady.

Her tears broke free instantly, spilling down like a snapped string of pearls.

Of course she remembered.

Ten years ago, her parents had both died in this hospital too-on the same day.

That was the day everything in her life started to fall apart.

She wasn't even allowed to mourn them openly. Not with Henry around. She had to hide. To stay quiet. To go somewhere else just to light a candle.

And still, it wasn't enough for him. What more did he want from her?

Grief crashed over her like a wave, stealing her breath. Then, something inside her broke.

"If you really hate me that much..." she whispered, voice ragged. "Then just kill me already! Do it! At least then it'll be over!"

Henry's eyes flared. His jaw tightened. He stepped forward and his hand rose instinctively...

But stopped mid-air.

She stared up at him, tear-soaked, defiant.

His hand dropped.

He turned his face away, breathing hard.

"Don't tempt me," he said hoarsely. "You don't know how close I am."

"Cough... cough..."

At first, Lydia tried to sit up, pushing herself with shaking arms. But the fever weighed her down like lead, and her limbs refused to obey. After a few seconds of struggling, she sank back into the pillow, her chest rising and falling with shallow, exhausted breaths.

Henry stood over her, his face pale with fury, fists clenched at his sides like he was barely holding himself together.

Martha burst into the room, eyes widening at the sight.

"Sir?! What are you doing? She's burning up-she needs a doctor!"

That seemed to snap him out of whatever storm had clouded his mind.

He didn't say anything. His jaw twitched. His eyes dropped to Lydia's flushed, tear-streaked face. She looked like she was on the verge of breaking-inside and out.

For a split second, something flickered in his expression. But it was gone just as fast.

He turned away sharply, raking a hand through his hair in frustration.

Damn it. She actually wanted to die? She really believed she could just disappear-like that would fix anything? As if dying would somehow set her free?

No. Not a chance.

He turned back, his voice low and cutting.

"This is your warning. You want to die? Not unless I say so. As long as you're breathing, you stay right here and pay for what your family did."

His voice was like ice, every word sharp enough to scar.

Lydia didn't respond. She just lay there, staring up at him with red-rimmed eyes, blinking slowly.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

Martha moved quickly to the bed, checking Lydia's condition. "I'll go get the doctor," she whispered, and hurried out.

Lydia stayed still, her eyes unfocused. The ceiling above her blurred, but his voice echoed in her head, over and over.

"You want to die? Not unless I say so."

She let out a bitter laugh, barely audible.

His cruelty always found new ways to hurt her.

Ten years. Would it ever end?

She didn't know.

...

Out in the corridor, Henry stood with both fists clenched, forehead pressed against the cold wall.

He couldn't shake that final look in her eyes-like she'd given up, but also found a twisted kind of peace.

That look lit a fuse in him-rage mixed with something way more terrifying-panic.

Damn it. Couldn't she just behave for once? Always had to push his buttons, again and again.

Frustrated, he clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall, trying to let out all that bottled-up rage inside.

The next morning, Lydia was discharged from the hospital.

Martha finally breathed a sigh of relief and told her to stay put and pack her things while she went to handle the discharge papers.

At the same time, out front of the hospital-

Clara stepped out of the car and quickly opened the back door to help her father out.

Once Charles Spencer stood firmly on his feet, he turned to his daughter with a warm smile and gently tapped her hand.

"Clara, you just got back to the country and probably have plenty on your own plate. No need to stick to me like glue," he said kindly.

"How is that the same?" Clara pouted and grinned, "You're my dad. If you have a hospital check-up, I'd be a terrible daughter if I didn't come with you. Nothing's more important than your health."

Charles chuckled at her words, his face lighting up.

"Oh, you and that sweet mouth-like it's dipped in honey!"

"Alright, alright, let's get inside, Dad," Clara said as she linked arms with him. "UV's strong today, not great for your skin."

So the two of them chatted and laughed as they walked inside.

Just as they stepped in, Clara's phone rang.

She glanced at the screen and said quickly, "Dad, you go on up-I just need to take this call. I'll catch up."

Charles waved it off. "Alright, go ahead."

After Clara left, he made his way upstairs like he'd done it a hundred times before and saw the doctor.

When he came out and noticed Clara still hadn't returned, he figured he'd go grab his medicine first.

Just as he turned a corner, someone in a rush rammed into him.

The medicine flew out of his hand and scattered on the floor, though he managed to catch himself against the wall.

The person didn't even stop or say sorry-just disappeared in an instant.

"People these days..." Charles muttered, shaking his head.

He bent over, ready to pick up his medicine, when a petite figure stepped in front of him, scooped up the package, and handed it to him.

He blinked in surprise, instinctively taking it from her without thinking.

When he looked up, he saw a young woman with a soft, beautiful face-her eyes curved when she smiled, just like little crescent moons.

Something tugged at his heart. She felt oddly familiar.

"Thank you, young lady," he said with a kind smile.

"No problem, sir," Lydia responded with a soft chuckle, giving a small wave.

Right then, her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, and her expression shifted subtly.

Without a word, she bit her lip and picked up the call.