Faded love 8

Chapter 8 

“Wendy,” he whispered hoarsely, 

“You once said I was rational. But right now… I don’t want reason at all.” 

The wind came from behind the mountain, carrying the salt of the sea. 

White chrysanthemum petals scattered from the grave, carried off one by one. 

He reached out to catch them, but only gathered mud. 

“Didn’t you promise you’d always be here?” 

“Why won’t you even leave me a body?” 

He laughed then 

– 

a broken, hollow sound. 

“Fine,” he said softly. 

“Then I’ll wait for you.” 

“I’ll wait until you come back and tell me what reason means.” 

A month later. 

Z Group’s stock crashed. 

No one in the boardroom dared meet his eyes. 

He was terrifyingly silent, sleepless night after night. 

Some told him to rest. 

Others whispered he had gone mad. 

But no one dared to utter the name Wendy. 

He moved into the villa by the sea. 

Every morning at three, he would rise and stare at the waves. 

Sometimes, he swore he could hear a voice in the wind. 

“Xingchen…” 

It sounded too much like me. 

He would run outside. 

The wind lashed, the waves struck his body with freezing force. 

— 

He called my name again and again until dawn. 

The guards would drag him back to shore, shivering, delirious. 

He burned with fever, half-conscious, muttering, 

“She’s not dead. She can’t be dead.” 

The doctor sighed. “Classic post-traumatic stress.” 

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11:26 Sat, Oct 18 

Sybil scoffed. “Trauma? He did this to himself.” 

I stood by the window, eyes tracing the dull gray of the sea. Something dark flickered in my gaze. 

I would make sure this madness destroyed him completely. 

Meanwhile, in another coastal city. 

Wendy stood before a new window. 

Sunlight filtered through the mist, washing over my face. 

My hair was cut short, my pale shirt crisp and clean. 

My breath steady, calm. 

Yuanzi entered, a newspaper in her hand. 

“He’s lost his mind.” 

I said softly, “Look.” 

On the front page 

– a photo of Rory at the grave. 

His face ghostly pale, his eyes hollow. 

The headline read: 

“CEO Keeps Vigil for Three Days at Wife’s Tomb.” 

Wendy’s fingers paused on the image. 

Then I drew my gaze back, speaking lightly: 

“Gone mad?” 

“Mad,” Yuanzi confirmed. 

“Good,” I said with a faint smile. 

There was no joy in it – only a calm, final peace. 

Autumn came, colder than the sea. 

The cemetery lay halfway up the mountain, surrounded by ginkgo trees. 

Golden leaves covered the steps, 

the wind weaving them into a quiet path. 

Before Wendy’s tombstone, fresh chrysanthemums stood. 

Someone replaced them every day. 

Rory stood there, black shirt fluttering in the wind, eyes empty. 

It had been six months since my “death.” 

Every dawn at four, he came. 

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11:26 Sat, Oct 18 

Every dusk at six, he left. 

– 

Wind, rain, snow he never missed a day. 

The butler couldn’t stop him. 

The doctor prescribed medication. 

He refused. 

“I don’t like the taste,” he said. 

That evening, the wind was fierce. 

A piece of paper slipped out from between the stones of the grave. 

He bent to pick it up. 

— 

The envelope was yellowed, the handwriting mine – 

soft, neat, restrained, 

a curve he knew better than his own breath. 

His hands trembled. 

He hardly dared to open it. 

The seal tore beneath his fingers. 

Inside were only a few short lines. 

The paper shook in the wind. 

He stared at the words until the world blurred. 

“You wrote this long ago, didn’t you?” 

His voice cracked. 

“You planned this… all along.” 

Leaves spun through the air, striking his face. He didn’t flinch. 

– 

His fist hit the tombstone – skin split, blood sliding down the cold stone, 

seeping into the letters of my name. 

“You think this will make me forget?!” 

“Wendy!” 

His voice broke apart. 

“How dare you die alone!” 

The wind swallowed his scream. 

He sank down slowly, forehead pressed to the cold marble. 

Tears fell one by one into the dirt.