Winter Graveyard

I carefully folded the signed consent form and put it away. At least my failing body could still be of some use.

Autumn wind swept ginkgo leaves against the glass window, like someone gently knocking.

The staff member verifying the information asked repeatedly: "Miss Jane Frost, are you certain you wish to donate all organs and your entire body? Including the corneas?"

I nodded, fingering the half-eaten apple pie in my pocket.

I’d bought it yesterday from an old shop near campus. Grandma used to say apple pie should be eaten with warm tea, but now I could barely stand long enough to finish a cup.

"Under 'Family Member,' Alan Dale is listed as your legal guardian?" The staff pointed at the signature line. "We need proof of the adoption relationship, or someone else must sign."

"My family... I have no other relatives left."

"Then I'm afraid it's not possible. Adoption documentation must be provided."

My hand froze mid-air.

Grandma passed when I was sixteen; Alan had just turned twenty. The court granted him guardianship over Julia and me.

Later, after Julia's "accident," I fled that home overnight, leaving all my documents behind.

"I... I'll get it reissued."

After leaving, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

A message from my advisor, asking how my exhibition pieces were coming along.

The Fine Arts department graduation show was scheduled in three months, the day I’d most looked forward to.

I crouched by the roadside, coughing violently, streaks of blood seeping between my fingers.

The wind rustled the sketch paper in my backpack – my new piece, Winter Graveyard. The tombstone bore no name, only a bouquet of white roses that never wilted.

Back in the dorm, my roommate was packing. "Jane, did you hear? Dale Group is sponsoring our grad show! Rumor has it President Dale himself will attend the opening."

My hand gripping the painting frame tightened suddenly, a wood splinter digging into my palm.

Alan Dale.

That name was like a rusted needle buried deep in my heart, shifting even slightly caused agonizing pain.

I went back to Alan's company.

The receptionist eyed me like I was a beggar as she made the call. Probably no one believed this shabbily dressed girl, swaying as she walked, could know the lofty President Dale.

The TV in the waiting area played financial news. Alan stood at a press conference in a tailored suit, a meticulously made-up woman beside him – Anna.

Julia's former best friend, now Alan's publicly acknowledged fiancée.

"Dale Group partners with the European Art Foundation to establish the country's first ALS art therapy center..."

On screen, Alan leaned slightly, brushing a stray hair from Anna's face, a gesture as natural as if rehearsed a thousand times.

Reporters' flashes erupted; the ticker scrolled "Match Made in Heaven."

I suddenly remembered that stormy night five years ago, Alan kneeling in the hospital corridor, clutching my ankle, begging: "Let me see her one last time, just once..."

He was soaked, a bloody gash on his forehead from banging against the wall.

I shook him off, my voice colder than hail: "She never loved you. She was on a date with someone else when the crash happened. Did you think she was rushing back to see you?"

"Miss Frost, President Dale will see you now."

The receptionist's voice pulled me back. I clenched the copy of Grandma's adoption papers in my pocket, nails digging deep.