After four years of fighting cancer, I could hold on no longer.

Before the end, I wanted one last look at the old Redbrick Factory housing where I’d lived with my parents.

Just as I moved to enter, a black Phaeton pulled up. Behind the window sat Gregory—the man I’d hated for seven years.

Impeccably dressed, a gleaming gold watch on his wrist, he looked at me as though I were a stranger.

“Why are you back?” he asked.

I tightened my grip on the old key in my pocket. “I’m going home. Is that a problem?”

Pushing the car door open, he stepped out and raised a hand as if to touch my forehead. I jerked away.

Between him and me, love had died a long time ago.

The time I had left belonged to me alone.

…

Winter in Rivermouth: the wind cut to the bone.

Hugging my threadbare coat tighter, I dragged a battered suitcase and stood before the rusted iron gate of the old Redbrick Factory housing like a ghost—a faded remnant out of place in its own past.

Seven years. Everything here looked unchanged, yet felt utterly different.

More plaster had flaked from the walls. Moss carpeted the corners, climbing almost to my waist. The air still carried that familiar, old-industrial scent of coal dust.

I was about to head inside when a black Phaeton glided silently to a stop beside me.

The window rolled down, revealing a familiar face. Gregory.

He wore a tailored cashmere coat. On his wrist, a Patek Philippe gold watch accentuated his sharp features—more pronounced, more distant than they’d been seven years before.

“Dorothy?”

He said my name, a thread of uncertainty in his tone.

I nodded. Said nothing.

What was there to say? *Long time no see*? Or, *Look, I’m dying, so I came back for a peek at what we used to call home*?

His gaze dropped to my misshapen, faded gray gloves. I’d knitted them myself years ago, embroidering a tiny ginkgo leaf on one with white thread.

Back then, he’d pointed to a ginkgo tree and said, “See how it holds its fan-shaped leaves until the bitter end? That’s loyalty.” I’d embroidered the leaf as a keepsake of that earnest, foolish promise.

Now he wore fine black leather gloves that matched his entire aura—expensive, detached, cold.

“Why… are you back?”

He seemed to choose his words carefully, finally settling on the most direct, and most cutting, question.

Right. Why—why *was* I back?

Tugging at the suitcase handle, I kept my voice barely a whisper, stolen by the wind. “I’m going home. Is that a problem?”

He frowned slightly, taken aback. *He’s not used to this*, I thought. *The old Dorothy was never prickly.*

Of course. The old Dorothy had always been gentle, always compliant with him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Stepping out of the car, his tall frame blocked the light in front of me. “Why are you dressed so lightly? You look pale.”

He reached out to touch my forehead.

Instinctively, I stepped back, avoiding his hand.

His arm hung awkwardly in the air before he withdrew it, pretending it was nothing.

A heavy, absolute silence settled between us.

Between us lay seven years, two lives, and the cancer cells raging through my body—a wasteland beyond all repair.

“The house…” He finally grasped for a new topic. “You don’t have a key, do you? I have a spare. I can let you in.”

“No need.” Fishing a lone key from my pocket, I showed it to him. “I have it.”

It was the one I’d pulled from the door seven years ago, when I left.

I’d never thrown it away. Like a brand seared over my heart, it was a constant reminder of what I’d once had, and lost, behind that door.

He stared at the key in my hand, his expression complex, finally dissolving into an almost inaudible sigh.

“Let me at least carry your suitcase up, then.”

He reached for my luggage as if it were the most natural thing.

This time, I didn’t refuse.

I truly had no strength left.

The few kilometers from the station had drained the last of my energy.

Lifting the suitcase effortlessly, he walked ahead.

I followed, step by step, over the stairs littered with dead leaves, toward the familiar Redbrick Factory apartments. Toward the place where our story began—and where it ended.

Unit 2, 401.

The key slid into the lock but refused to turn, the mechanism seized with rust.

"Let me."

Gregory took it from my hand. He was stronger. After a few moments of jiggling, a sharp *click* finally sounded, and the door—sealed for seven years—swung inward.

A thick wave of dust and stale air, the scent of forgotten time, washed over us.

Frowning, Gregory flicked on the living room light. In the dim yellow glow, everything lay blanketed under a heavy layer of grey.

The furniture stood exactly as I’d left it. My throw blanket, never folded, still draped over the sofa. The book I’d been halfway through rested on the coffee table.

Here, time had simply stopped.

Gregory set the suitcase down in the entryway and turned to me, hesitating, words caught in his throat.

"Thank you. You can go now."

I gave him his dismissal.

I couldn’t stand sharing this space with him. Every object here was a hook, pulling at memories that still twisted in my chest.

"Dorothy." He used my childhood name, his voice rough. "You... how have you been, all these years?"

*How have I been?*

I almost laughed out loud.

My father, wrongfully accused, jumped to his death. My mother lost her mind. And I’m dying of cancer, alone, shuttling between hospital wards and rented rooms just to survive.

*How have I been?*

Lifting my eyes, I met his gaze calmly. "Thanks to you, I’m not dead yet."

The color drained from his face. His lips moved, soundlessly.

After a long moment, he forced the words out, thick and heavy. "I’m sorry."

Three words. Seven years too late.

If he’d said them seven years ago, I might have screamed, demanding to know why.

Now, they just felt hollow. A bitter joke.

"Save your apologies for Laura."

I pulled the door wider, a clear gesture for him to leave. "Gregory. I’m tired. I need to rest."

He stood rooted to the spot, his tall frame rigid. Finally, without another word, he gave me one last, deep look, turned, and walked out.

The moment the door clicked shut, all the strength left my body. I slid down its length until I was sitting on the floor.

I didn’t cry.

My tears had run dry seven years ago.

My eyes traveled around this home—both achingly familiar and utterly foreign—finally landing on the yellowed family portrait on the wall.

In the photo, my father was young and vigorous, my mother gentle and beautiful. I wore my hair in pigtails, grinning without a care in the world.

Back then, our family was the envy of the whole Redbrick Compound.

My father served as deputy factory director, a man of integrity with an impeccable reputation. My mother worked as a clerk in the factory office, gentle and capable. And I was their cherished only child.

Back then, Gregory was just the poor boy next door.

His parents died young; he lived with his frail grandmother.

Our families were close. My parents practically raised him as a second son.

Always top of his class, sensible, with delicate, handsome features—he was the "model child" all the compound’s aunties talked about.

As for him and me? We were the golden couple in everyone’s eyes. Childhood sweethearts.

From elementary school through high school, we were inseparable.

He tutored me in math; I brought him water during basketball games.

I thought we’d just... naturally walk that path together for the rest of our lives.

After the college entrance exams, he won a place at a prestigious law school in the Capital. I only made it into a local teachers’ college here in Rivermouth.

The night before he left, he held my hand by the riverbank, his eyes shining like the stars above.

"Dorothy, wait for me," he said. "I’ll come back and marry you as soon as I graduate. In this life, the next, and the one after that, I’ll only ever be good to you."

I believed him.

Like every foolish girl drowning in first love, I believed every word.

The house was freezing—an icebox.

That’s when I remembered. The water, electricity, and gas had been shut off seven years ago.

With a sigh, I pulled my phone from my bag, ready to call someone to get them reconnected. But after scrolling through my contacts, I realized I had no idea who to even call.

No choice but to head to the factory office and ask.

After locking the door, I made my way slowly downstairs.

Just as I stepped into the courtyard, I spotted a familiar old-fashioned three-wheeler parked below.

The owner was a man in his fifties, surnamed Joe—everyone called him Uncle Joe. Back when my father was still around, Uncle Joe had been a driver in the factory’s transport team.

“Uncle Joe?”

I called out tentatively.

Hunched over and smoking, he glanced up at the sound of my voice. He squinted at me for a long moment before his face brightened with recognition. “Well, I’ll be! If it isn’t Benjamin’s girl, little Dorothy! You’ve finally come back!”

Meeting someone familiar in this unfamiliar place thawed a sliver of the ice in my heart.

“Yes, Uncle Joe. I’m back for a visit.”

“Good that you’re back, good that you’re back!” He stamped out his cigarette and waved me over warmly. “Where you headed? Let me give you a ride!”

“I was going to the factory office to ask about the water and electricity.”

“Perfect! That’s on my way! Hop on!”

I climbed into Uncle Joe’s three-wheeler. With a sputter, the vehicle came to life, carrying me away from the housing complex that held half a lifetime of my memories.

“Just saw that Gregory kid earlier, driving a fancy car,” Uncle Joe said as he pedaled, making small talk. “You two… made up?”

“No.”

My reply was flat.

“Ah.” Uncle Joe sighed. “What a perfect pair you were back then. How did it ever come to this? We all watched Gregory grow up. How could he… do something like that?”

The wind whipped against my face, sharp as a blade.

I stayed silent for a moment. Then, as if possessed, I poured out everything I’d bottled up for seven years to this not-so-familiar Uncle Joe.

Maybe it was because I was dying. Some things, if left unsaid, would never have another chance.

Or maybe I was just too lonely.

“Uncle Joe, do you know Laura?”

“Laura? Sure, I know her. That girl who used to follow you around like a shadow—like your own sister.”

“Yeah. Like my own sister.”

I tugged at the corner of my mouth, producing a smile uglier than tears.

Laura and I really were as close as sisters.

Her family was poor. Her parents were always away in other cities, caught up in some “multi-level marketing” scheme—a pyramid scam, to put it bluntly.

She practically grew up eating at our house.

My mother felt sorry for her, sharing every good thing we had.

I considered her my best friend, my closest confidante. I’d even given us a nickname—the “Dorothy-Laura Duo.” We were a match made in heaven, I used to say, the perfect pair of sisters.

Looking back now, it’s all so bitterly ironic.

After university, I became a teacher in Rivermouth, while Gregory stayed in the Capital City and joined a top law firm. We became a long-distance couple.

To end the separation—to be by his side and take care of him—I ignored my parents’ objections, quit my stable job, and moved to the Capital City.

I was so full of joy, thinking I was rushing toward our future.

I never imagined it was the beginning of my nightmare.