I thought finding evidence would fix everything. I thought it would let me return to the past.

I didn't expect the truth to push me into an even deeper abyss.

Perhaps Heaven took pity on me. During the year I spent scavenging for proof, the expedition team that saved me managed to repair my damaged voice recorder.

They told me to come pick it up.

I clutched the device like a lifeline. Inside was the recording of Joseph confronting me on the ice. It captured his confession, his plan to steal the supplies, everything.

I could finally vindicate myself.

As fate would have it, that day was Joel's birthday. Camila, surprisingly, called me.

"No matter what, you're still his biological father," she said stiffly. "You should come."

I didn't refuse. I even went to a barber to trim my hair and shave my ragged beard.

Looking at the aged, weary figure in the mirror, a pang of fear twisted in my gut—fear that I would embarrass my son. I tidied myself up as best I could.

At the party, Joel poured me a glass of wine—a first. Camila sat nearby, smiling, urging him to call me "Dad."

But Joel froze. His eyes darted nervously to Joseph, as if seeking permission.

Acid rose in my throat.

"I only have one dad—and he's not it!"

Joel wailed, tears bursting forth. It was clear Camila had pressured him. Joseph, sitting beside him, looked furious, making a show of wanting to discipline the boy.

"Henry is your biological father," Joseph chided, his voice dripping with fake benevolence. "You can't treat him like this, even if he did disgraceful things in the past."

"Dad, that traitor isn't my father! You don't need to defend him!"

Joel glared at me with pure hatred. Right there at the dinner table, my own son accused me.

He called me a selfish coward. A murderer. He pointed a finger at my nose and cursed me.

Joseph played the martyr perfectly. "Henry, you've been gone for years. The child isn't close to you. Don't take it to heart."

"Yes, Henry," Camila added, placing a hand on Joseph's arm. "After all, it was Joseph who raised him."

My parents frowned, their faces twisted in disgust. "A perfectly good birthday ruined. We told you he was a jinx," my dad sneered. "He hasn't been part of this family for a long time. We can't afford to lose face like this."

In a rage, they ordered me to leave.

Joseph stepped forward to play peacemaker. "It was a critical moment on the ice," he said, sighing. "If it were me, maybe I would have run too. It's just... Henry really intended to kill me back then."

"What nonsense are you spouting?" I roared, my patience snapping. "You really think I came empty-handed?"

In front of everyone, I pulled out the voice recorder.

Joseph's face went pale.

"This records exactly what happened. You wanted to steal the supplies. I tried to stop you. You pushed me into the pit."

"I know you don't believe me," I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "So let the facts speak."

The room held its breath as I pressed play.

Static hissed. Then a voice.

My voice, yes.

But the words were not mine.

*"Go die, Joseph. If you don't die, sooner or later you'll snatch my Camila away."*

Silence.

Then Joseph burst into tears. "I really have nothing going on with Camila! You misunderstood us!"

*Smack.*

Camila's hand connected hard with my cheek.

"What else do you have to say?" she screamed. "You're just jealous of Joseph! You have a filthy mind, so you see filth everywhere!"

"Security! Throw this trash out!"

They called me crazy. They said I tried to kill Joseph out of jealousy and was now spreading rumors about my wife.

As the security guards dragged me out, I stared at the recorder in my hand, my mind reeling.

I had no idea how the recording had been changed.

After that day, my life became a waking nightmare.

I was a pariah. A rat scuttling through shadows, flinching from every beam of light. The video from the birthday banquet had gone viral, and the internet crowned me its favorite monster. Death threats flooded my inbox. Strangers spat at me on the street. The stones weren't always metaphorical.

My parents, drowning in shame, had me committed.

The mental institution wasn't treatment. It was punishment. Electrodes on my temples. Voltage ripping through my skull until I forgot my own name.

A full year.

It nearly killed me.

When I finally clawed my way out, more ghost than man, I buried Henry Harding in an unmarked grave. I took a new name. Cut every tie. Disappeared.

…

The winter wind sliced at my face as I rode my scooter home. Winter Solstice. The streets were emptying, everyone rushing toward warmth and family.

A luxury sedan swerved into my path.

I slammed the brakes. My heart lurched into my throat.

A woman stepped out. Designer coat. Trembling hands.

Camila Bradley.

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and for a moment—just a moment—she looked exactly like the girl I'd married.

"Mom and Dad made dumplings." Her voice cracked. "They want you to come home."

Years hadn't touched her beauty. If anything, she'd only grown more striking—porcelain skin, perfect posture, the kind of elegance money couldn't buy. But the woman wearing that face? A stranger.

Her gaze traveled down my worn delivery uniform, and something flickered across her expression. Pity. Disgust. Both.

"I didn't realize you'd fallen this far."

The golden boy. The top student. Reduced to fighting other drivers for food orders.

A bitter smirk tugged at my lips. "What's wrong? Looking down on the working class?"

"No, I just—" She hesitated. "I saw the post. Joseph's post."

She explained that she'd finally seen the truth. That she'd been deceived all these years.

The hollow cavern in my chest didn't so much as flicker.

"Why bother acting for me, Camila?" My voice came out flat. Dead. "You were the one who swapped out my voice recorder."

Our recorders had been a matching set. A couple's gift from better days. During that critical period, she was the only one who could have touched it.

"No!" Her head shook violently. "We all thought you'd lost your mind! We were terrified that if the scandal kept escalating, you wouldn't survive it. We were trying to protect you—"

"Protect me."

"I searched everywhere for your so-called evidence. I never found it. I thought you were hallucinating." Her voice climbed higher, desperate. "It was a critical period for Joseph's commendation. Mom and Dad decided to suppress it. They thought it was the only way to save you."

Tears carved silver tracks down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Henry. I was wrong."

She reached for my arm.

I stepped back.

"Let me make it up to you," she pleaded. "Give Mom and Dad a chance to compensate you. And... Joel wants to see you."

*Joel.*

Static filled my ears. The old wound—the one I'd cauterized and buried—split wide open.

Back then, I had begged my family to believe me.

They were the first to twist the knife.

I didn't have parents like that. I didn't have a wife like that. And I sure as hell didn't have a son like that.

Camila was still talking, something about her "conscience awakening," about dragging me back for the holiday, when a furious voice exploded behind me.

"Well, well, Henry! No wonder I couldn't reach you—you're out here flirting with some woman!"

My blood ran cold.

"No—Daisy, listen—"

Daisy Matthews stood with her hands planted on her hips, cheeks puffed out, eyes blazing with indignation.

My knees buckled.

"Wifey, I know I was wrong."

"*Wife?*" Camila's face drained of color. "You're *married?*"

The spotlight crashed down.

I didn't think. I threw myself over the props, and the metal frame split my head open. Blood flooded my vision instantly, hot and blinding.

Behind the curtain, Julian Henson was dabbing sweat from Madison Barnes's forehead and holding a water bottle to the junior dancer's lips.

My skull throbbed, each pulse sending fresh agony radiating down my spine. Cold sweat drenched my back. The world tilted, blurred at the edges.

The man I loved didn't spare me a single glance.

He was too busy kneeling beside Madison, gently kneading her ankle.

Later, perched on the back of his Flying Pigeon bicycle as he pedaled toward the hospital, I slipped my fingers into his overcoat pocket. They brushed against a small tin—Friendship-brand snow cream.

Before I could speak, his hand shot back, clamping down hard.

"Don't touch that." His voice was sharp. Impatient. "It's for Madison. She needs to protect her hands."

Silence stretched between us.

I nodded once. Then I pointed toward the regiment commander's office looming ahead.

"Pull over. I'm getting off."

The marriage application. The paperwork I had been so eager to submit.

It was time to withdraw it.

——

Julian didn't stop. If anything, he pedaled harder, his voice dripping with that familiar, lecturing superiority.

"Penelope, can't you be sensible for once? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum right now? Madison twisted her ankle dedicating herself to the art. That is far more serious than a little scrape on your head."

Warm blood trickled from my temple, smearing across my left eye. It stung like hell.

I didn't argue.

When he slowed for the intersection, I didn't wait for a complete stop.

I jumped.

My landing was clumsy—two staggering steps before a wave of nausea slammed into me. The world spun.

Julian barely glanced back. A scoff. A command thrown over his shoulder.

"Don't think playing the victim will work on me. Since you're capable of jumping off bikes, you can walk to the clinic yourself. I have to get Madison to the hospital for an X-ray."

A powerful kick of his long legs, and he sped away. Gone.

I stumbled down the road until Tessa Nichols from the song-and-dance troupe appeared. Her hands flew to her mouth.

"Good heavens! Penelope, your face is covered in blood! Where is Julian?"

I forced the corners of my mouth up. The metallic taste of blood coated my tongue.

"Accident during rehearsal," I rasped. "Julian is busy. I can manage."

Tessa looked heartbroken, moving to support me, but I waved her off.

I had something to do.

The Director was sipping tea when I walked into the leadership office. On his desk lay a single sheet of paper stamped with a bright red seal.

His teacup clattered onto its saucer.

"Penelope! What happened? Medic! Someone get a medic!"

I shook my head. Blood droplets flung onto the floor. My trembling finger pointed at the paper.

"Director, did the approval come through?"

Misunderstanding my urgency, he laughed, relief washing over his face.

"Specially approved! Usually takes another two days, but I know you two are a perfect match, so I expedited it. You can pick up the certificate tomorrow."

"Thank you, Director."

I stepped forward and picked up the thin sheet.

There they were—my name, Penelope Norris, and his name, Julian Henson—bound together by that bright red "Approved" stamp.

"What's the matter? So happy you're stunned?" the Director teased.

Right in front of him, I gripped the edge of the paper.

And ripped it down the middle.

The tear echoed through the quiet office. The Director's smile froze. He shot to his feet.

"Penelope Norris! What are you doing? That is an official document—have you lost your mind?"

"I'm not crazy, Director."

I pointed to my bleeding head.

"I just refuse to marry a man who, while my life hangs by a thread, is busy coaxing another woman to smile."

Back at the troupe, I pushed open the heavy doors of the rehearsal hall.

Madison Barnes was perched on a prop box, cradling my army-green enamel mug. She took small, delicate sips of the brown sugar water inside, her face a mask of contented sweetness.

That mug was a trophy Harrison Delgado had brought back from the battlefield three years ago. He had given it to me as a memento.

It was precious to me.

Julian stood beside her, peeling a White Rabbit creamy candy.

A treat I kept in my drawer. Saved for a special occasion. I could never bring myself to eat it.

Now, he peeled away the rice paper wrapper and gently held it to Madison's lips.