Chapter 231: The Devil’s Handwriting Pt2
Ivan’s hands ran softly through Lydia’s hair. His touch was trembling, careful, as though afraid she would push him away. His lips parted. He was about to speak, about to finally say the words he had buried inside for years, to tell her that he still loved her, that he was sorry.
But Lydia spoke first.
Her voice was soft, but it cut through the silence like a blade.
"What do you wish for?" she asked.
Ivan froze. "Huh?"
Her eyes glistened with tears, her lips pressed into a tight line. "I promised you that—a wish," she whispered. Then her tone turned colder, harsher. "So what is it? Tell me. Do you wish that I’d forgive you? That I should forget everything that happened? That I’d run back into your arms as if nothing broke me?"
Ivan’s throat tightened. He shook his head slightly. "What—"
"You really are a fool, Ivan," she interrupted, her voice trembling. Her tears spilled freely now, but her face stayed cold. "Do you think that a song will fix the pain you caused me? Our son died, Ivan. He died. Because of you."
The words struck the air like thunder.
Lydia’s shoulders shook as she pressed on. "Do you think I’ll be touched by your pretty little melody? Do you think I’ll forgive you for everything you made me suffer? Because you wrote a song?" She let out a bitter, broken laugh. "You are completely heartless. As if a song can bring back everything you took from me."
Her hand brushed angrily at her cheeks, wiping the wetness away. Her voice cracked. "So tell me—what’s your wish? I’ll grant it. Because unlike you, I don’t break my promises. But don’t expect forgiveness or anything more. Because I will never forgive you. Don’t think that I ever will. Now tell me. What do you want? Or do you need more time to think?"
Ivan’s lips parted, but for a moment no sound came. His chest rose and fell like he was struggling to breathe. Finally, his voice escaped, quiet and raw.
"I don’t expect your forgiveness," he said. His words sounded like they were tearing him apart. "I didn’t write it for wishes. I didn’t write it to ask you for anything. I..." His voice broke, and he shut his eyes. "I know I don’t deserve even to beg you for forgiveness."
His words hung heavy between them, filling the silence with the weight of everything unsaid.
Lydia scoffed bitterly. Her hands balled into fists. "Think about your wish," she said with a shaky breath. Her voice cracked, but she forced it steady. "Think about it and tell me later."
She turned sharply, her dress brushing against the floor as she walked away. Her back was stiff, her steps fast. She pushed open the door, not looking back.
Tears kept falling from her face as she hurried down the hallway. They spilled so easily, as though they had been waiting all along. She could not stop them. None of it made sense.
Her heart screamed at her that she hated him. That she would never forgive him. That she would never let his song touch her. And yet the tears kept falling.
In the lounge, Ivan remained still. His hand trembled as it hovered above the piano, but he did not press another key. His chest felt hollow, as though something inside him had died all over again.
On the piano, the sheets of music lay waiting. His eyes landed on the title, written across the top in his hand. The Winter Flower.
He stared at the words until they blurred. The title mocked him. The music mocked him. Even the small shred of hope that had bloomed in him when she said he had kept his promise was gone now. Destroyed.
He bowed his head. His hands covered his face. And in the quiet room, he felt it again—the truth that had been gnawing at him for years. She would never forgive him.
Hours passed.
The sun went down, painting the sky in gold and red before giving way to deep blue.
In her chambers, Lydia lay on her bed. Her pillow was damp with tears. She had cried until she could no longer remember how. Her body ached with exhaustion, but her heart did not rest.
Her mind spun in circles. Why would he? she thought again and again. Why would he keep that promise when he broke the most important one? Why would he write a song for me when he abandoned me? When he abandoned our son?
Nothing made sense.
Her eyes closed, but sleep would not come. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Her fingers curled into her sheets.
The song haunted her. The melody played over and over in her mind. Soft, sad, tender.
Curiosity began to stir in her heart, no matter how much she tried to fight it.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The room was silent. Her thoughts whispered to her, sharp and cruel. The song was beautiful. Too beautiful. What did he even call it?
She scolded herself. No. This is madness. I should not care. I must not care.
But the thought would not leave her.
The hours crawled. The sky outside grew darker. Midnight came.
Lydia sat up. Her chest tightened as she realized where her thoughts were pulling her. She told herself it was foolish. Dangerous. Weak.
And yet her feet carried her.
She found herself in front of the lounge. Her hand hovered above the door handle. Her lips parted in a shaky breath. "This is crazy," she whispered to herself. "This is madness."
But still, she pushed the door open.
The room was empty. Quiet. The fire had burned down to embers. The air was filled only with the ghost of the music she had heard hours ago.
She stepped inside, her steps soft. Her eyes fell on the piano.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she approached. Her hands trembled as she reached forward. There, lying open on the piano stand, were the sheets of music.
She lifted them carefully. The paper crinkled under her touch. Her eyes scanned the top.
The Winter Flower.
Her lips pressed together. She scoffed softly, a bitter little sound. She set the sheets back down as though they burned her. She turned to walk away.
But her steps froze.
Her hand moved back to the piano, picking up the papers again. She stared down at them. Something pulled her eyes back to the writing.
Her breath caught.
There was something strange.
The letters. The small details.
The way he wrote his lowercase "n." The curve of his "t." They were not neat, not perfect. They carried something unusual about them, something that tugged at her memory. Something she could not place but could not ignore.
Her chest tightened as she stared harder.
The handwriting was his. But there was something about it—something odd. Something that made her heart twist in confusion.
And she stood there, in the empty lounge, her tears drying on her face, her hands shaking as she held the pages, wondering what this meant.