The trembling touch of his fingertips on the dried bloodstains sent Hamish into a collapse that seemed on the brink of extinction.
Hamish had always had a good memory. When he saw the date at the top of the diary, it was the day Elisa had just returned from the hospital after being diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer.
Her face was very pale. He still remembered that day when he berated her, questioning why she hadn’t answered his calls, why she had returned so late, and why her face was as white as a ghost.
He knew nothing about what had happened to Elisa. His mind was solely fixed on Lila, who was in the hospital.
On the day Elisa was diagnosed with stomach cancer, he had forcibly drawn 600 milliliters of blood from her.
On the day Elisa was diagnosed, he had actually taken her to the hospital to donate blood to Lila…
That composed, adept at restraint man could no longer bear the internal agony, clutching the notebook to his forehead, he sobbed uncontrollably.
This diary comprised a total of 102 pages, and every word on each page was about him, Hamish.
He couldn’t discern what he felt. It was as if a long-frozen lake suddenly had boulders breaking through, causing ripples.
Elisa’s feelings for him seemed shallow, like a gentle stream, but only those who truly immersed themselves in it knew how deep her love was.
For those few years, Elisa loved him desperately, so much so that in the end, she truly lost her own life.
He had always thought that no matter what happened, Elisa would never leave him. However, Elisa was indeed still by his side, but he had lost the living, breathing Elisa in the diary.
He had kept this notebook for six years, its yellowed pages recording Elisa’s pain, the mottled tear stains, and the bloodstains of illness. Hamish raised his hand and gently touched those words, attempting to touch Elisa’s past.
“If there’s another life, let’s part ways with no hard feelings, and each seek joy.”
A grim smile tugged at the corners of Hamish’s mouth, but as he laughed, tears streamed down his face.
With his head bowed, Hamish choked out, “Elisa, when you wake up, I won’t lose you again.”
…
At dusk, the entire hospital was bathed in the glow of the setting sun, casting a golden hue around the window. Hamish sat in a chair, holding the half-undone scarf in his hands. He had maintained this posture for the entire afternoon, motionless, his gaze vacant and his complexion pallid.
Winter had arrived, and the closed windows offered no ventilation. The glass reflected his figure hazily, and he stared blankly, as if at a stranger.
This winter, as Elisa had predicted, it had indeed started to snow. Outside the window, white stars dotted the sky, marking the year’s first snowfall.
Snowflakes drifted onto the windowsill. Hamish stood up, and with a gentle breath, a mist formed on the glass.
Snow was a rare occurrence in Bankshire. He had been in Bankshire for seven years, and including this time, he had only witnessed snow twice.
The snow in the south was too fleeting, disappearing at the touch of a palm.
Elisa’s health was very poor; she was both in a vegetative state and suffering from stomach cancer. She relied on intravenous drips and oxygen tanks to survive. One misstep, and she could vanish without a trace, just like these snowflakes.
Hamish held onto the scarf and covered Elisa’s hand, his voice hoarse as he said, “This winter, I’ll wait for you to come back so we can finish knitting this scarf together…”
As he touched her rough fingertips, his throat tightened. He had forgotten that Elisa’s hands could no longer handle such delicate work.
“… Or perhaps I’ll knit it myself.”