Chapter 17
The days that followed felt like walking on a narrow, shaky bridge stretched over a vast chasm of pain and misunderstanding. Rachel and Eric both sensed it—the delicate tension between wanting to move forward and fearing the wounds from the past might rip everything apart again. Every glance, every word carried weight, as if they were afraid to shatter the fragile peace they’d just begun to create.
Rachel noticed the little changes in Eric. Gone was the cold, distant man who had condemned her so fiercely. Instead, she saw glimpses of vulnerability beneath his usual stoic mask—a hesitance in his movements, a softness in his eyes when he looked at her, as if he were searching for something he had lost a long time ago. But those moments were fleeting, replaced again by the weight of his guilt and anger, often turning his face into a mask of torment.
One gray afternoon, the rain tapping softly on the bookstore windows, Eric showed up unexpectedly with a small bouquet of wildflowers. The blooms were simple and a little faded from the weather, but to Rachel, they were like a quiet promise.
“I thought these might brighten the place a little,” he said, holding out the flowers with a shy, almost uncertain smile.
Rachel was taken aback. “You remembered I like daisies,” she said softly, a flicker of warmth breaking through her usual guarded expression.
Eric nodded, his gaze steady. “How could I forget?”
They sat together in the cramped back room, the scent of old books mingling with the fresh fragrance of the flowers. They brewed tea, its warmth comforting against the chill that lingered in the air. For once, their conversation drifted away from accusations and pain. They talked about small things — a favorite book, the stubbornness of Shanghai’s weather, a movie from years ago that Eric had once mentioned.
Then Eric’s face grew serious, the weight of his thoughts settling heavily between them.
“Rachel,” he said quietly, “I need to be honest with you. Every day, I’m haunted by Helen’s death. I replay the past over and over, wondering if I missed a sign, a chance to save her. I ask myself if I could have done more.”
Rachel’s heart tightened, feeling the raw edge of his pain. She looked down at her hands, trembling slightly as she spoke, “I was blamed for her death. But I never wanted any harm to come to Helen. I loved you, Eric—maybe not in the same way she did, but my feelings were real. I cared about you deeply.”
Eric’s eyes softened, and after a moment, he reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers against hers. The touch sent a jolt through them both — a mix of fear and longing.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me now,” he whispered, “but I want you to know I’m here. I’m not walking away this time.”
Tears welled up in Rachel’s eyes, but she blinked them back fiercely, refusing to show her vulnerability. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for not giving up.”
Outside, the rain continued its steady fall, washing away the grime of years, as if nature itself wanted to cleanse the past.
In that small, quiet room filled with old books and fragile hope, two broken souls began the slow, painful journey toward healing — step by uncertain step, hand in trembling hand.