Every day with her was anything but peaceful. Even the smallest, most trivial matters could spark hidden flames between us. The air always seemed thick with a stifling tension.
This afternoon, while I was at the office working through paperwork, the phone suddenly rang. It was her mother. On the other end, her trembling voice was almost unrecognizable:
"Come quickly! She… she's on the rooftop, and her eyes look so strange!"
I froze where I sat, my heart struck as if by an iron hammer, my fingers turning ice-cold. In a panic, I dialed her number again and again. The hollow tone echoed in my ear, but she never picked up. At that moment, it felt as though the blood in my body was rushing backward, a suffocating fear rising to choke me.
I ran like a madman. As I neared the place, I saw her from afar—like a soulless puppet, she hurled herself into the air. For an instant, time stood still. The world had been muted.
"No—!" My cry was hoarse, powerless.
Thankfully, the rescue team had already set up an air cushion below. Her body crashed onto it heavily, but did not break. My legs nearly gave out, cold sweat soaking through my back.
At the hospital, after a full examination, the doctor delivered another shock: "She's two weeks pregnant."
Thinking back on these past days, her changes had become more and more uncanny. Her gaze would often turn vacant, as though she were seeing things no one else could. When her weak heart faltered, her vision would suddenly darken—sometimes even plunging her into brief blindness. At night, she spoke of "ghosts" in the room, claiming to hear a woman's laughter—light, fleeting, yet bone-chilling.
Sometimes she would curl into the corner of the bed, body drawn tight, whispering over and over: "They want to hurt me… they're right here…"
And I could only watch, helpless, as she slid deeper into that abyss of terror, unable to pull her back.