After deciding to leave Azurea and follow Clara Miller to Northwood City, I was cast out by my parents.

"That girl is an orphan–what can she possibly give you? If you choose a life of hardship now, you’ll spend the rest of your life suffering! Once you walk out that door, don’t bother coming back!"

I left anyway.

For five years, I watched Clara rise step by step, becoming one of Northwood City’s most respected psychologists.

Just as she had promised, she gave me a home.

As the New Year approached, I planned to take her back to Azurea to reconcile with my parents.

However, just before boarding the plane, she abandoned me again–this time for a depressed patient threatening to take his own life.

She let go of my hand, her eyes full of pain.

"Julian Vance… he’s just like I used to be–alone, with no one to rely on. If I don’t go, he’ll jump. I’m sorry. Just this once. I’ll catch the next flight and meet you there."

Then she turned and ran toward the exit without hesitation.

I stood there, staring at the two plane tickets in my hand.

She had saved everyone who needed redemption.

Everyone… except me.

Slowly, I tore up her ticket.

Then I walked alone toward the security gate and turned off my phone.

What Clara did not know was this:

Some journeys home, once missed, are gone forever.

I returned home to Azurea alone.

My mother opened the door. The moment she saw that there was no one behind me, a look of quiet heartbreak flashed across her face.

My father sat on the sofa, his back straight as always, but there was a deep exhaustion in the way he held himself.

I could not help but recall what they said to me five years ago. And now I was back–like a soldier who lost the battle and fled home.

I turned my phone on and off again. The unread messages and missed calls from Clara Miller almost flooded the screen.

"Julian Vance, I'm sorry! Wait for me!"

"He's stable now–I'll buy a plane ticket right away!"

"Answer the phone, please. Let me explain!"

I did not reply to a single one.

My heart felt as if it was frozen.

Three years ago, came back to me: the first snowfall in Northwood City. She burrowed into my arms and teased softly,

"Julian, in this lifetime, Clara will never betray you."

Now that promise melted away–just like the snow.

The next evening, Clara showed up.

Gone was her usual polished appearance. Her eyes were hollow with exhaustion as she stubbornly waited downstairs outside my building.

"Julian, just give me five minutes. Five minutes."

Her voice was hoarse, nearly breaking.

My parents stood firm, their faces cold, refusing to let her inside.

She held up her phone, its glow lighting her pale face.

"Look! The referral agreement! I've officially transferred Adrian Locke to Dr. Hayes. I deleted every contact–blocked everything!"

Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through the screen.

"I was an idiot! I lost my head! I shouldn't have left you like that! Julian, I can't live without you."

She started talking about the year we lived in that basement apartment–how the heating broke in winter, and she held me all night, trying to warm me with her own body heat.

Then she talked about how hard she worked, pushing herself day and night, just to give me a decent home sooner, so that one day I could hold my head high in front of my parents.

"Julian, everything I've worked for was for you, for our future."

Suddenly, halfway through her sentence, her expression changed. She covered her mouth and rushed toward the shrubs nearby, retching violently.

When she came back a moment later, her face still pale, I looked at her flat stomach.

A thought struck me like lightning.

"You!" My voice felt dry.

She lifted her tearful eyes and nodded. Her hand moved instinctively to protect her abdomen.

"Almost two months, Julian. We're going to have a baby."

Looking at the red veins lining her exhausted eyes–and the way she guarded her stomach–my heart clenched painfully.

"For the sake of these five years and for this unexpected child."

My own voice sounded exhausted beyond words.

"Clara, this is the last time."

Under my parents' disappointed gaze–eyes filled with frustration that I still refused to learn my lesson–I followed her back to Northwood City.

On the plane, she clutched my hand tightly, as if afraid of losing a treasure she only just regained.

However, as I looked out at the endless sea of clouds, my heart felt strangely hollow.

This forgiveness was a gamble.

What I was risking was the last shred of hope I left–and the life of an innocent child.

…

During the first two weeks after we returned to Northwood City, Clara was unusually careful.

She took over all the housework, came home from work on time, and reported every little detail of her day.

She bought pregnancy guides and books about prenatal education. At night, she would sit against the headboard, gently stroking her still-flat stomach while reading stories in the same soft, reassuring voice she used with her therapy patients.

"Our baby will be the happiest child in the world."

Her eyes sparkled when she said it, just like they used to.

However, shadows have a way of lingering.

Strange phone numbers began appearing on her phone–missed calls from unfamiliar numbers.

She would glance at them, hang up irritably, then block the number.

"Probably him calling from different numbers again. He just won't leave me alone."

That was her explanation, though a flicker in her eyes betrayed something she could not quite hide.

Then came the requests from anonymous social media accounts.

The verification messages were painfully emotional:

"Dr. Miller, I know I shouldn't disturb your happiness. But without you, my world is gray. I can't even pick up a paintbrush anymore."

She rejected the request right in front of me. But her finger lingered on the words for a moment longer than necessary.

One day, after we finished her prenatal checkup–the baby was healthy, the heartbeat strong–I tried to let myself sink into the fragile joy of becoming a father.

Holding her hand, I walked with her out of the hospital.

Her phone rang again.

It was Dr. Hayes, Adrian's new attending physician.

"Dr. Miller, sorry to bother you. Adrian is strongly resisting treatment. He mentioned some details about his childhood abuse, things that only you know. It's crucial for the diagnosis. Could you possibly–"

Clara stepped aside and lowered her voice, speaking for a long time.

When she came back, her brows were tightly furrowed, and her expression strained.

"Work trouble?" I asked, the faint joy in my chest already clouded over.

"Yeah. Just a small issue."

She tried to put an arm around me, but her movements were stiff.

That night, I woke up thirsty.

Her side of the bed was empty.

A faint light glowed in the living room.

Clara sat on the sofa, staring at her phone screen. One hand gently stroked her stomach, her face pale in the cold glow of the display.

On the screen was Adrian's anonymous Facebook account.

Ten minutes earlier, he posted:

[If the care you gave me was fake, then what was all that warmth before? Maybe the world would be better if everything just went dark.]

She was so absorbed in it that she did not notice me approaching.

At that moment, a memory surfaced.

Back in our junior year of college, when I had severe gastroenteritis–vomiting and barely able to stand–she stayed beside me like this all night, refusing to sleep.

Now, the sorrow she was watching over belonged to another man.

A heavy unease began to coil inside my chest.

…

Adrian's condition unfolded like a carefully scripted play.

Scene after scene, each one pushing the limits of what I could endure.

Clara's phone became an alarm that rang only for him. And every time it rang, it seemed to drain a little more strength from her.

Late one night, Adrian had a severe reaction to his medication and was struggling to breathe.

Clara took the call and spent nearly an hour soothing him in a quiet voice.

When she finally hung up, her face was pale.

A dull pain pulsed faintly in her lower abdomen.

I panicked and wanted to call an ambulance, but she forced a smile and insisted she only needed some rest. She refused to go to the hospital.

In the middle of the night, Adrian had another episode. He became paranoid, convinced someone was trying to harm him, and spiraled into panic.

Clara grabbed her car keys and headed for the door. I blocked her path.

"Didn't the doctor say you need complete rest? In your condition, you shouldn't be running around!"

She looked at me, her eyes full of conflict.

"Julian, he's a high-risk patient, I can't just watch him die. Just this once. I'll be back soon."

When she returned, she looked utterly exhausted. There were even faint reddish stains on her pants.

Weakly, she said she was just overworked and told me not to worry.

My doubt and unease were interpreted by her as a lack of empathy, as if I simply did not understand her profession.

"Julian, you used to be so kind. Why can't you try to understand now? This is my responsibility."

She looked at me, her eyes tired–tinged with a hint of disappointment.

Because I was kind, I was expected to keep watching her put herself–and our child–in danger for someone else.

Eventually, she suggested making it up to me by taking me to an art exhibition I was looking forward to for a long time.

However, the moment we arrived at the entrance, her phone rang again.

She glanced at the screen and hung up immediately. Yet her expression changed instantly, and her hand moved instinctively to cover her lower abdomen.

"Is it him again?" My heart sank as my eyes fixed on the hand protecting her stomach.

"Just a telemarketer," she said, avoiding my gaze.

The phone kept vibrating relentlessly, stubborn enough to make anyone uneasy.

In the end, she gave in and walked to a corner to answer it.

"Adrian! Calm down! Don't do anything stupid! Okay, wait there–I'm coming right now!"

When she returned, her face was filled with anxiety, sweat beading at her temples.

"Julian, we can't see the exhibition. He's standing on the rooftop edge. He said if I don't come, he'll jump."

I looked at her pale face, at the hand that instinctively shielded her stomach. My voice sounded cold, even to myself.

"So our plans, our child, they all come second to another one of his performances? Clara, look at the state you're in."

She grabbed her hair in frustration, her body trembling slightly.

"Just this once! I swear it's the last time! I'll resolve this completely! If he really dies, I'll spend the rest of my life haunted by it. Our baby won't be happy either!"

Then she turned and ran toward the parking lot. Her steps were unsteady, yet there wasn't the slightest hesitation in her back.

I stood alone on the lively street as people passed by around me.

Inside my chest, everything felt ice-cold.

That night, when she returned, things were worse.

The abdominal pain intensified, and the bleeding was clearly heavier.

We rushed to the hospital, where the doctor diagnosed her with a threatened miscarriage and ordered strict bed rest.

On the hospital bed, she clutched my hand, tears streaming down her face.

"I'm sorry, Julian. I'm sorry, baby. I never thought it would turn out like this."

My heart felt as though it were being sliced apart, but all I could say was, "Let's focus on saving the baby first."

…

Clara's hospital was celebrating its anniversary.

She insisted that I accompany her.

"I want everyone to see how wonderful my husband is."

She gently stroked her slightly rounded belly, a fragile hope flickering across her face.

I saw the exhaustion in her eyes and the forced smile she tried to maintain. In the end, I nodded.

I chose a well-fitted suit and did my best to conceal the weariness that built up over the past few days.

The banquet was lively–glasses clinking, elegant guests mingling beneath the soft glow of lights.

Her colleagues came over to toast us, offering congratulations and blessings.

Clara responded with polite smiles. One hand rested gently on the back of my chair, while the other occasionally moved to protect her abdomen.