Early spring snow on the piano keys

Helen left in the end.

She didn’t glance back—not even once—before vanishing into the blizzard. The blood I coughed up was quickly buried under fresh snow, as though nothing had happened at all.

The production crew rushed over, their faces etched with concern. “Mr. Joseph, are you all right? Should we take you to the hospital?”

I waved them off, forcing a pale smile. “It’s fine. Just an old issue.”

I couldn’t go to the hospital. If I did, my condition would be exposed, and I refused to win even a shred of Helen’s sympathy that way. That wouldn’t be love—only pity. And Joseph doesn’t need pity. Not even if I’m dying.

With Helen gone, the rest of the recording ground to a halt. I sat alone in the empty cabin, watching the heavy snow fall outside. Time seemed to stretch endlessly.

My phone buzzed with countless private messages from fans.

【Joseph, we all know you were framed!】

【She’s not worth it! Get out of there!】

【Please take care of yourself. We’ll always support you!】

Reading their kind words, my eyes grew warm. For three years, while the whole internet cursed my name, they were the ones who stood by me—believing in me, supporting me, without ever asking why.

I started typing a reply, then deleted it. I couldn’t tell them the truth, because I knew exactly what kind of storm would break over Helen if it ever came out.

I’ve loved her for nine years. Even if that love has twisted into something unrecognizable, I still can’t bear to see her hurt. Perhaps this was my last act of gentleness toward her.

Helen didn’t return until evening. She carried the faint scent of antiseptic, exhaustion written plainly across her face.

“How is Stephen?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

She paused, as if surprised I’d ask about him. “His fever broke,” she replied flatly, shrugging off her coat to reveal a beautiful starry-night gown underneath.

My breath caught.

That dress—I’d commissioned it from France last year for her birthday. One of a kind, obscenely expensive. When I gave it to her, she’d said, “It’s too flashy. I don’t like it,” and tossed it into the closet without a second glance. I never thought she’d wear it.

I just never imagined she’d wear it today. Not for me. For another man.

“Today…” I forced the words out, my heart feeling flayed alive, “is Stephen’s birthday?”

Helen didn’t deny it. Her silence was confirmation enough.

And then I remembered—years ago, when we were still deeply in love, we took a trip to an island together. That night, beneath a sky full of stars, she leaned against me and whispered a wish: “Joseph, when our ninth anniversary comes, let’s come back here. You’ll watch the stars with me while I wear a starry dress, okay?”

I’d smiled and promised, “Okay.”

So she did remember that promise. She just gave it to someone else.

And our ninth anniversary… is in three days.