The surgery dragged on for hours.
When the doctor finally emerged, he announced that the operation had been successful–but Graham was still in a fragile state.
They wheeled him into the ICU for observation.
His face was ghostly pale, tubes running across his body, his consciousness lost to a deep coma.
Evelyn watched from a distance, her heart heavy, but she didn’t follow.
She found the cheapest motel near the hospital and checked in.
Every day, she visited the hospital at the same time, peering through the ICU glass for a brief glimpse of him, asking the doctors for updates, and quietly settling his medical bills at the front
desk.
The money came from two years of careful saving, along with a sum from an anonymous
donation she had once tried to send back to her hometown for rebuilding efforts–unexpectedly
returned.
She had redirected it in Graham’s name to hurricane–hit communities. Now, it was just enough to cover his hospital expenses.
A week later, Graham was stable enough to be moved to a regular ward. Still weak, he drifted in
and out of sleep, his body frail.
The day before he woke, Evelyn visited his room.
He was asleep, brow furrowed as if wrestling unseen pain. His face was pale, stubble scattered
across his jaw, his usual commanding presence softened by illness.
She stood by his bedside, watching silently for a long time. Then she tore a page from the notebook she carried and wrote a few lines carefully, folding the paper and placing it gently beside
his pillow.
The note read:
[Graham, thank you for saving my life. The medical bills are paid. We’re even. Please don’t look for
me after you’re healed. Goodbye. Evelyn.]
She gave him one last look, then turned and walked away without hesitation.
Graham woke fully the next day at noon.
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Pain shot through his back, and a heavy tightness gripped his chest, making each breath a struggle. His eyes snapped open, and his first thought was to find her.
“Evelyn… Where’s Evelyn?!”
His aide, Frank, who had been keeping watch, rushed to steady him.
“General! Don’t move–you’ll tear your wounds! Evelyn… she’s fine. She’s healed. She… she’s
gone.”
“Gone?” Graham froze, a wave of emptiness crashing over him. Urgency flared again. “Was she hurt? Where is she staying? Is she safe?”
Frank hesitated, eyes darting away.
Graham’s instincts flared–something was wrong. His gaze swept the bedside table and landed on a folded piece of paper.
With trembling hands, he reached for it and unfolded it.
Her handwriting was delicate but cold, each word slicing into his battered heart.
[Thank you for saving my life.]
[Bills paid.]
[We’re even.]
[Don’t look for me.]
No greeting. No warmth. Just a stark, icy line drawn between them. Even after he had nearly died
for her, she would not soften–not even for the hospital bills.
Despair hit him like a frigid flood, drowning him worse than any fracture or internal injury.
He clutched the note until his fingers whitened, then let it fall. Tears spilled from his sunken eyes, burning against the crisp white pillow.
He had lost. He had lost everything.
Graham stayed in the hospital for another month.
His physical wounds healed slowly, but the hole in his heart only widened, a cold draft cutting
through him relentlessly.
He grew unnervingly quiet.
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Outside treatments and meals, he spent hours staring out the window. Often, his gaze would drift back to that worn, crumpled note, its edges frayed from constant handling.
Chapter 21
