28.
My brother was badly shaken, but thankfully, he was ultimately safe.
For the next few days, I didn't dare leave his side for even a second. I managed company affairs remotely from the hospital.
When everything finally calmed down, I didn't claim the Pei family's authority, nor did I look back at that mansion even once. Every asset and share that once bore our family name—I transferred them all to my mother. I publicly announced my withdrawal from the Pei Group.
To me, those shares were written in blood, evidence of a crime—a blade pulled from my brother's body and returned to my mother's hands. And for her, this blade could finally strike back.
She became the one in power. The first Omega in history to stand at the top of the Pei family's hierarchy.
I took my brother and boarded a flight overseas.
At the airport, on the day we left, my mother held my brother in her arms, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry… Back then, I agreed to send you to that place too… I…"
My brother tried to speak, but I gently stopped him.
I tightened my grip around his hand, guiding him through security and onto the plane.
I didn't let him speak. I knew exactly what he was going to say—"It's okay."
But I didn't want to hear those words.
It would be too cruel.
Nothing about his life should ever have been a reason for him to endure that kind of pain.
29.
The day after we left, my father died—of cardiac arrest.
It's far too easy for a man who's lost all power to die. No one really knows how he died. I sent a generous sum to that private hospital, asking only that he be allowed to die the slowest, most painful death possible.
This wasn't revenge.
This was a reckoning, long overdue.
But even so, it wasn't enough. It could never bring anything back.
For the things he did to my brother—not even hell would take him.
30.
We moved to a small town by the sea.
Every morning when we opened the windows, there was the scent of salt in the wind and the soft sound of distant waves.
The house wasn't big. The kitchen and living room shared the first floor. Two bedrooms upstairs. A small backyard where we planted roses and rosemary.
My brother liked the way sunlight spilled into the corners of the kitchen. He'd always wear loose sweaters and walk barefoot across the wooden floors.
His pregnancy wasn't easy. The morning sickness was intense, his emotions volatile. Sometimes he'd break down and cry, saying he didn't deserve to have a child. Other times, even a small noise would send him into a panic—afraid he'd miscarry, afraid I'd leave, afraid this was all just a dream.
But I knew—it wasn't his fault.
It was just the old wounds, echoing inside his body.
He liked to sit in the backyard under the sun, lost in thought.
After the baby was born, he slowly softened.
The child had my brother's eyes—just like him when he was young.
When he held the baby, he couldn't help but smile. It felt like the brother I once knew had come back.
I made a habit of coming home early. I helped wash bottles, change diapers, rock the baby to sleep.
At night, I made hot soup. He cut fruit. We curled up on the couch watching old films.
He'd lean on my shoulder, quietly commenting on the plot until he drifted off.
The characters on the screen kept talking, but I only looked at him—thinking, finally, he no longer had to struggle just to stay alive.
One night, he suddenly asked me, "Do you still think about the past?"
I looked at him for a long time, unable to speak.
He sighed softly. "I still dream of the old house sometimes… and those people…"
I reached out and pulled him into my arms. "It's okay. We don't have to forget. But every day now—you fought for it."
He nodded, resting his head on my shoulder.
After the baby fell asleep at night, we'd brew a pot of mint tea and sit on the balcony, listening to the sounds of insects.
He'd often reach for my fingers, as if to make sure I was really there.
He said, "I used to think happiness was something other people had. I didn't even dare dream about it."
I looked at him and smiled. "But now you're inside happiness."
He looked down and laughed, voice slightly choked, "Yeah… I can't believe someone like me actually gets to live like this."
31.
One winter, it snowed heavily.
He took the baby outside to build a snowman, his cheeks pink from the cold.
I stood at the doorway with hot cocoa. He smiled at me, the lines at the corners of his eyes soft like an old film.
He lifted the baby up to place the scarf on the snowman. The child laughed uncontrollably.
At night, the three of us lay in bed, the baby between us.
He turned to look at me. "Don't you think… this life could actually be very long?"
I touched his forehead. "As long as you're here, even one day is enough for me to remember forever."
He smiled and closed his eyes.
Sometimes I wonder—if we hadn't resisted, hadn't escaped, would he have stayed trapped in that place where no light could reach, slowly falling apart until there was nothing left?
But now, he has become spring itself—branching out, reaching toward the sun, with light, wind, and the deepest love between us.
32.
The days passed slowly, but never empty.
He learned to bake bread. Failed dozens of times. The dough just wouldn't rise.
Our child would draw smiley faces on the surface, and he could only laugh helplessly.
One day he finally succeeded. He cut the soft bread and handed me a piece, asking proudly, "Isn't this kind of impressive?"
I told him, "You've always been impressive."
Outside, the snow had stopped. The olive tree wore a thin layer of frost.
He sat by the window, knitting a sweater for the baby, stitch by stitch, patiently.
The sunlight fell on his hair.
I walked up and hugged him from behind, feeling him tremble just slightly.
He whispered, "Are we really free now?"
"Yes," I replied softly. "We have a home."
He turned to face me. The sun caught the tear-shaped mole at the corner of his eye, like a tiny star.
In his eyes, I saw myself.
And through those eyes, I saw the him who had once been trapped in a sanatorium—the one who used to wake screaming from nightmares.
He didn't have to wake up in fear anymore.
Because the person he loves most is here with him.
In his eyes, there was only me.
And in mine—only him.