His voice cracked on the last words, the sound snatched away by the wind. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, but it did little to stop the sting.
His throat felt tight, each breath a struggle, as if speaking Yuelan's name had reopened wounds that had never healed.
The road ahead blurred, but his feet kept moving. He passed familiar buildings, shops he used to visit with the children, a corner where Mianmian had once tripped and scraped her knee, crying until Yuelan's soft voice soothed her.
Memories spilled over with every step, each one heavy, weighted with the knowledge that they belonged to a life he could never get back.
By the time he reached the edge of town, the ache in his chest had turned into a hollow numbness.
There was no undoing what he had done. His children would have warmth, food, and a name that opened doors. He would have silence.
He looked up at the sky, watching a bird wheel high above, its wings catching the light.
