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... t's not what I'm thinking," I heard Declan say, his voice sharp and scared.

I couldn't even answer him.

I was too stunned to speak.

All I could do at that moment was place my trembling hand on my stomach—on the spot where I had been shot.

Slowly, I lifted my hand away.

It was covered in blood.

Warm. Sticky. Red.

I stared at it, confused, dazed.

Maybe it's a dream, I told myself desperately.

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"Your bed is cold," spoke a voice in the room that had her eyes go wide in fear. Nervously, she turned around, gulping softly to see a shadow on her bed as if someone laid down there. The man who had been lying down sat up emerging out from the shadows where he had been waiting for her.

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Terminally ill before even reaching the age of 40, Song Nuanyi awaited a gloomy end. Her death just happened to clash with her son’s wedding. Yet, her children, who she painstakingly raised, her mother-in-law, who she served for so many years, and her husband, who she exchanged vows with to love and cherish forever, none of them noticed her. When they finally discovered her corpse, they simply said, “Just bury it.”

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The man was stunned before snickering. “Ms. Song, did you hit your head?” She added insistently, “I’m asking you one last time, are you brave enough to come?” The man did not answer but pulled out a credit card instead. “Ms. Song, if something is wrong with your head, go and have it checked.” She took the card and said, “I’ll take this as your betrothal gift.”

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