The Man Lost In the Snow

Three years after my fiancé fell off a cliff while on a sketching trip in the mountains, I walked straight into his solo art exhibition by accident. And there he was, the man I hadn’t been able to forget for a single day, gently adjusting the scarf around a young woman’s neck.

Every wall around us was filled with portraits he once promised he would only ever paint for me. Yet now, every single one of them was of her.

Beside me, Timothy Hansen, his closest friend, the one who had helped me handle the aftermath back then, grabbed my arm.

“Lexie, don’t do anything rash. Ethan had his reasons. He was rescued by Jane after the fall. He hit his head and lost his memory. It wasn’t on purpose that he didn’t come back.”

I gave a wry smile. “So he lost his memory. Did you lose yours, too? If Ethan was alive all this time, why didn’t you bring him back? You watched me spend the last three years drowning in pain, surviving on sleeping pills. Was that entertaining for you?”

Timothy said nothing. He didn’t even dare to look at me.

Meanwhile, the girl—Jane Green—shrank back, hiding behind Ethan like a frightened animal. Then, Ethan finally looked at me, his expression cold and distant.

“Ms. William, I didn’t come back because I didn’t want to. Jane is the one I love. As for the past, since I don’t remember it, just think of it as something from a past life.”

“A past life?”

I found it absurd. We had known each other for three years, loved each other for four, and then I had spent another three years dragging myself through despair. Yet, he tried to brush off a decade of my life with just a few casual words.

“Lexie…”

Timothy stepped in front of me, his eyes avoiding mine. “Why don’t we talk outside? There are too many people here. Let’s… not make a scene.”

Not make a scene?

I looked at him, the man who had watched me destroy myself for three years like I’d lost my mind, all while pretending to comfort me, telling me to move on.

“Timothy,” I said, my voice hoarse, “when did you find out he was still alive?”

He froze.

“Was it a year ago? Two years ago? Or… did you know from the very beginning?”

Timothy clenched his jaw before answering in a low voice, “Ethan was badly injured back then. It was Jane who carried him down the mountain herself. When he woke up, he didn’t remember anyone. The doctors said forcing him to recover his memories could put his life at risk… Besides, he’s been living peacefully in that small mountain town. He’s happy.”

“So for the sake of his peace and happiness,” I cut in softly, “I deserved to rot in hell, is that it?”

Timothy had no answer.

At that, Ethan frowned slightly.

“Miss.”

His voice was still as cool and distant as I remembered, but every word he said cut deep.

“I don’t know what kind of past I had with you, but Timothy is right. I’m doing great now.”

He reached for Jane’s hand, their fingers interlocking tightly.

“Jane saved my life. She’s the one I love now. Ms. William, you need to look to the future instead of dwelling in the past.”

It was easy for him to say.

Three years ago, Ethan told me he was going on a sketching trip to the mountains just one month before our wedding.

He had smiled and said, “Lexie, once I finish this series of ‘Mountain Spirits,’ I’ll come back and marry you.”

So, I waited and waited. However, what came instead was news of a blizzard sealing off the mountain and a search team returning with nothing but a damaged hiking boot.

I clutched that boot at the funeral and fainted three times from crying. To find his body, I sold our home and hired a private rescue team, staying at the foot of the mountain for half a year. From there, I developed severe bipolar disorder. The scars on my wrists layered over each other, one on top of the next.

A broken laugh escaped me, and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

“You’re right. People should look to the future.”

I wiped my tears away and straightened my back, forcing myself to look composed.

“So, I’ll leave you in the past, too.”

Then, I turned and walked away. As I passed the largest painting in the gallery, I paused. Its title was ‘Rebirth.’ In the painting, a girl ran freely under the sunlight, her back turned to the viewer, and the girl was Jane.

However, in the lower right corner, almost hidden, was a small cluster of white flowers. They were lilies. Ethan once told me I was the only flower in his barren life. Now, those flowers had become nothing more than roadside decoration—something to be trampled without a second thought.