While I writhed in pain, a bitter realization settled over me. This—this suffering—must have been what Aiden intended. This was my punishment, a consequence for driving someone to the point of death. I could no longer deny it. But beneath that acceptance was a deep sense of regret. It was just too much to bear. If I continued to drown in despair and transformed into an evil spirit, forgetting everything, I would lose all sense of self—my memories, my identity—and exist only to curse other human beings.
What hurt the most, though, was knowing I might never have the chance to speak with Aiden properly. Not even once. I wished I could have at least one conversation with him—listened to his bitter words, felt his anger, and had my ego still intact enough to understand. That small, simple wish haunted me more than anything.
I scoffed at myself. "Excuses. Excuses." That's all they were—just lies I told myself.
