Loving Him Was Like Walking on Ice—And I Fell Through

The house was familiar, but my memories of it were incredibly distant.

During the year I was trapped there, I barely saw the sun. It was always pitch black, impossible to see my hand in front of me.

When I finally groped my way to the study, the first thing I saw was the unfamiliar face of Nathan.

His desk was crowded with books, all on sign language instruction.

After my death, Nathan had finally begun the long-delayed task of learning my language.

He started to investigate the things he had previously ignored, things deemed unworthy of mention and thrown into the corner.

Like the paper stars, each of which held a message I wanted to tell him.

Or the clothes I sewed for him, stitches clumsily made after pricking my fingers multiple times.

"The ten fingers are connected to the heart," I had felt the pain acutely, deeply hoping Nathan might change his view of me.

But in the end, he only looked at them with disdain before tossing them into his closet, never to be seen again, never even tried on.

At this moment, Nathan's well-defined fingers were holding fabric, unsure of what to do next.

The pampered young master finally bowed his head, trying to please his beloved, merely to soothe his faint guilt.

But Nathan only understood my past self; he had no idea that I no longer liked the plain white, nor did he know my changed measurements.

Nathan had once held me close, lamenting my frailty and swearing to fatten me up and keep me healthy.

But later, Nathan seemed indifferent to my skeletal frame, ignoring the doctors' subtle hints that my condition was not good.

"Did I mistreat you? Why did you let yourself become like this? For what reason?"

He neither cared nor knew.

Didn't know about the mental abuse from his friends that kept me sleepless and anxious.

Didn't notice the housekeeper’s mistreatment, always skimping on the groceries.

He only saw the surface, that he had given me plenty, materially I was comfortable.

Nathan never cared about my feelings, just that I hadn't endured real suffering.

The day we went to the mountains was meant to mend our relationship.

Nathan’s visits became more infrequent, and our silences grew.

When the accident happened, Nathan didn't even have time to react.

Due to a congenital condition, I was always more sensitive to my surroundings.

In the end, I resolutely pushed Nathan away.

He left just like that, not glancing back at me.

I hoped he would return with a rescue party, fantasized about him saving me like a hero from a storybook.

I don't know how long I waited, still trapped in the same place, curled up in despair.

The wind roared, the cave cold and dark, driving me to madness.

It wasn't until a year after my death that someone found me.

Nathan, however, acted like nothing had happened, sitting there, steadily anticipating my return.

He didn't actively search for me. If he had even thought of me during those days, I wouldn't have died.

I was only twenty-seven, and I didn't die in the landslide, but starved to death.

No one loved me while I was alive, not even Nathan, who repeatedly doubted me.

It was only after my death that Nathan acknowledged me, preparing to repay, full of sorrow.

I suddenly wondered how Nathan reacted when he found out I had died.

During media interviews, he repeatedly talked about his plans to propose to me.

Those were things I had yearned for but never received, but now, I'll never have the chance to wear a wedding dress.

Whenever he talked to others, he said he missed me.

Yet now, standing before him, he couldn't see me anymore.

The room was silent until Nathan’s phone beside him rang abruptly.

"Hello, is this Mr. Ruthledge? We have found Madame Pemberton’s remains. Do you have time to come and claim them?"