Taking a few drags, a cigarette burned down to its stub, and another cigarette butt was added to the bedside table.
Oscar Moreland leaned down toward Sophia Wilson. Though Sophia had passed her fifties, she had maintained herself well. Her skin held the charm and elegance of a woman in her thirties—an allure that young girls like Amelia Clarke couldn't compare to, marked instead by a youthful freshness.
He gently caressed the face of the woman he adored and spoke in a low voice, "Sophia, we are no longer young. There aren't many fifteen years left for us to squander. You hate me for forcing myself on you against your wishes back then, and for the past twenty years of our marriage, I've tried to make up for it, yet you still can't let it go. Lucas Wilson is gone, you wanted to go abroad to clear your mind, and I let you. Now, it's time to come home."
Fifteen years spent clearing her mind, and it was time to come home.
