In the final month of my life, I took the cherished photos and went to the cemetery to look at the plot.

The cemetery agent warmly escorted me, showing me around to familiarize myself with the future neighbors in advance.

To prevent future conflicts and ensure peace of mind in my new home.

But unexpectedly, I encountered the ex-husband who had been visiting here since our divorce three years ago.

And his mother's grave was right next to the plot I had reserved.

When enemies meet, their animosity flares up and my ex-husband held nothing back to speak his mind.

"Anyone else can buy this plot, but not you. You don't deserve it."

Feeling helpless, I asked the agent to find me another location.

But the agent looked troubled.

"Miss Enders, cemetery space is incredibly limited at the moment. This is the only plot left."

I was diagnosed with advanced liver cancer, with only three months left to live.

In the first two months, I brought in a compassionate hospice caregiver to help me navigate with my daily needs.

I also reached out to a funeral home, ensuring that my final wishes would be respected. Then, as the final month dawned, the phone rang. It was the cemetery agent.

"Miss Enders, a plot has become available. Are you able to come and see it now?"

I eagerly asked Jack to accompany me out to the funeral home.

Lately, overwhelming drowsiness had taken over my days and bouts of coughing up blood became disturbingly routine.

Each day, I was haunted by the fear that I wouldn’t make it through the month.

I dreaded the thought of slipping away suddenly, leaving my loved ones with the burden of finding me a final resting place.

Jack Hamilton was the professional hospice caregiver I had hired.

He had been responsible for caring for me, a patient with a bad temper, until my final moments.

Beyond soothing the fear of death, hospice caregivers had also offered expert guidance on funeral arrangements, all at no extra cost.

That's why bringing him along to see the grave had felt like the perfect decision.

By the time we arrived at the cemetery gates, it was almost dusk.

The setting sun cast long shadows and every now and then, a few crows flew overhead.

The coolness of early autumn carried a sorrow that pierced straight to the heart.

Perhaps my furrowed brow was too telling, as Jack gently took my hand.

“Death is an end, but it’s also a new beginning. Don’t be afraid.”

I tilted my head in confusion.

“Have you experienced it?”

Jack shook his head.

“So how do you know?”

“Maybe death is just that—an absolute end, with no chance for a do-over.”

Life feels truly precious precisely because of the certainty of death.

Noticing I still had the energy to banter, Jack let out a gentle, knowing laugh.

“If there’s no chance to start over, then just sleep peacefully here. I’ll visit you often and if you need anything, I’ll make sure it’s sent to you.”

Jack was a highly responsible and professional hospice caregiver.

He was not only gentle and patient but also quite handsome.

Even though his services were significantly more expensive than others, I was more than willing to pay for the added eye candy in my final days.

However, I wasn’t about to be naively swayed by the charm of a pretty face.

At that moment, the cemetery agent arrived at the door to pick us up.

“Sorry for the wait, Miss Enders. The plot is in the southwest corner. Let me take you there.”

My condition had worsened to the point where walking was nearly impossible.

My limbs had withered to frail, skeletal sticks and my face had turned a ghostly shade of gray.

However, being wheeled there in a wheelchair felt like it lacked respect for the deceased.

After all, handling neighborly relations was always delicate—whether dealing with the living or the departed, it was all the same.

So I asked Jack to help me inside, to properly get acquainted with the future entrance and meet the neighbors.

“You’re in luck,” the agent said enthusiastically. “This plot just became available recently and the geomancy is excellent. I guarantee it’ll bring you good fortune in your next life.”

The agent went on and on about the plot’s supposed geomantic benefits, dropping hints that several eager buyers were already eyeing it and ready to seal the deal.

I wasn’t too concerned about the luck aspect.

After all, with just a month left, there’re no reason to delay when a perfectly available resting place was right here, waiting for me, right?

“I need to finalize the plot urgently—ideally, today.”

The agent, clearly pleased, nodded enthusiastically and quickened his pace.

My legs trembled uncontrollably, making it harder and harder to keep up with the agent. Sensing my struggle, Jack bent down effortlessly and scooped me up.

For a split second, I was taken aback, instinctively clutching his neck for support.

Jack’s smile was wide and carefree.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a chuckle. “Your neighbors probably won’t mind.”

I locked eyes with Jack.

It was evident that a true professional had a knack for grasping their client's unspoken needs.

“Miss Enders, this is the spot,” the cemetery agent announced, gesturing ahead.

Jack gently set me down with care.

Nearby, a couple knelt in reverent prayer at a neighboring grave, their curious glances flickering toward us.

I couldn’t help but think that my illness was making me confused—my mind felt foggy and even my vision seemed blurred.

I couldn’t believe it, but the person looked a bit like my ex-husband Oliver Mortimer, whom I’d been divorced from for three years and his new partner, Luna Sirius.

Luna stood up first and smiled as she spoke to me.

“What a coincidence, Emma, to run into you here.”

Unfortunately, bumping into kind souls in a cemetery wasn’t exactly fortuitous.

It felt downright eerie.

I pressed my lips together in silence and Jack, sensing the awkwardness, stepped in to break the tension.

“Emmy, do you know each other?” he asked.

Oliver set aside the incense he was holding and stood up, his gaze distant.

“I’m Emma Enders’ ex-husband,” he said.

The man barely acknowledging my pale complexion as he approached and scrutinized me with a chilling tone.

“Emma, please don’t disturb my family.”

Even though my mind wasn’t as sharp as it once was and I had forgotten many things, his words triggered a sudden realization. Today was Angela Mortimer’s memorial day.

Oliver was here to honor his mother.

With a resigned sigh, I replied, “I’m not here to cause trouble for your mother.”

Oliver let out a harsh laugh, his eyes narrowing with anger.

“Just as well you know. A murderer has no right to appear before her.”

“Why don’t you get lost already?”

Oliver hadn’t changed at all—when he was angry, he was deaf to any reasoning.

As sudden a sharp pain in my abdomen started making my head spin, I clung to Jack for support, barely managing to stay upright.

Seeing my condition deteriorate, Jack quickly stepped in to clarify.

“You’ve misunderstood. We’re here to…”

Oliver cut him off impatiently.

“Misunderstood?”

He glanced at Jack with suspicion.

“You look unfamiliar—just got caught up with Emma, haven’t you? Here’s a tip: keep your distance. You never know when you might be next in line for betrayal.”

Oliver continued to jab at me with his words.

My already numb heart surged with intense pain, making it hard to breathe.

He let out a cold, mocking laugh.

“Not only did you kill my mother, but now you come here pretending to mourn? It just makes me sick.”

Luna quickly tugged at his sleeve, while I clenched my fists, fighting to keep my composure.

Meanwhile, a hot rush of blood surged in my throat, threatening to erupt.

I didn’t want to disrupt the solemnity of the cemetery, so I fought hard to maintain my composure.

Seeing my head bowed and fists clenched, Oliver’s own hands tightened into angry knots.

Sensing the escalating tension, the agent stepped in swiftly.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m the cemetery agent here to help Miss Enders with her plot purchase. Could you please step aside?”

Oliver and Luna both looked taken aback.

“Buying a plot in this cemetery?”

Oliver stepped forward and grabbed my wrist, forcing me to stop.

“Your grandmother’s far away on Pearl Shore Isle and your parents perished at sea. Who are you buying a plot for?”

I managed to push down the blood that had been rising in my throat, hid the photo I had been ready to place on the gravestone and spoke weakly.

“I just want to set up a memorial for my parents here.”

Oliver’s face, inches from mine, showed no sign of panic or urgency.

Instead, it was a mask of pure hatred and revulsion, his features contorted with fierce disdain.

“Anyone can buy this plot, but you— you’re not worthy.”

Oliver coldly wrenched his hand away.

“I absolutely forbid anyone connected to you from being near my family.”

I let out a bitter laugh.

Moments ago, I had foolishly clung to the hope that he might show a shred of concern or at least ask about my arrangements.

Even a simple, polite inquiry would have sufficed, given our shared history.

But it was clear now—after everything, only hatred was left between us.

Jack suddenly stepped away from me and grabbed Oliver by the collar.

“Enough! Oliver, I’ve put up with you for far too long.”

Jack’s imposing stature and commanding voice carried a powerful authority.

He roared, “I don’t want to get physical in front of your mother, but understand this: we don’t need your permission for anything we choose to do.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself, ex-husband.”

Without Jack's support, I felt my frail body on the verge of collapsing, my head pounding with a dull ache, swaying like a zombie.

Come on, you big fool, come back and help me out!

I couldn’t understand why everything became so complicated as soon as Oliver got involved.

All I wanted was to leave in peace.

With a weary sigh, I took a step forward and lightly patted Jack’s arm.

“Let’s forget it. Let’s go.”

I weakly turned back to the cemetery agent who had brought us to check out the plot of land.

“Sorry, I no longer want this plot. Are there any other available ones? Preferably as far away as possible.”

At my mention of "as far away as possible," Oliver’s face visibly darkened.

Meanwhile, the agent's expression grew increasingly troubled.

“Miss Enders, with the cemetery space being so tight, this is the only plot left that hasn’t been reserved.”

I hadn’t signed a contract with the agent yet.

I definitely didn’t want to be haunted by Oliver’s grimace every year on Angela’s memorial day.

If I ended up buried next to his mother, who’s to say he wouldn’t one day smash my headstone if he felt like it?

With no visitors, my grave would just become a neglected, sad ruin.

After Jack dropped me off at home, he stayed silent, lost in thought.

I leaned back against the mattress.

“What’s wrong? Are you troubled about something?” I asked.

Jack seemed to snap back to reality.

He responded, “No, I was just reflecting on today’s events. How about we check out other cemeteries tomorrow?”

I patted him reassuringly with a light smile.

“No problem. I can hold on, no doubt I can last another two months. I refuse to believe I can’t find a single plot in that time!”

As soon as I finished speaking, Jack's eyes turned red.

He paused, holding the peeler.

The man then muttered under his breath, “Liar.”

I was born on a tiny island, miles and miles away from Nightfall City. The islanders had fished for generations and my parents followed in that long tradition. Our life was simple and rhythmic—up with the dawn and to bed with the twilight.

That day, the weather was nothing short of perfect. The breeze was gentle, the sun was radiant and the sky stretched out, endless and clear. The sea shimmered under the sunlight, sparkling like countless tiny, scattered jewels.

As usual, my parents prepared their fishing gear, set off in their old, sputtering boat and waved cheerfully as they departed.

They were in high spirits, excited about the recent bounty of fat mantis shrimp, which promised a good price.

Little did anyone know, the storm would arrive so swiftly and fiercely.

The waves were too violent; no one on the island dared risk going out to search for them.

I clung desperately to my grandmother, feeling utterly powerless.

I prayed fervently, over and over, for the heavens to spare my parents.

Yet, fate has a way of mocking our deepest wishes.

It was in that moment that I first truly grasped the cold reality of fate.

Perhaps some things are predestined, beyond the reach of our efforts to change.

After my parents died, I developed a deep-seated fear of the sea.

This fear led me to reject the option of a sea burial after cremation, opting instead for the most traditional burial.

I feared the bottomless depths, where the darkness swallowed all life.

That night, after returning from the cemetery.

I had another nightmare.

In my dream, I was drowning in deep water, struggling to breathe as my chest was crushed with pain and my limbs grew weak.

Beneath the surface, two shadowy figures, their faces indistinguishable, were pulling at my legs, preventing me from surfacing.

I woke up in a cold sweat, the metallic taste of fear lingering in my throat.

Jack hurried to my bedside, reaching out to me with concern.

“Emmy, open your mouth.”

I obediently did as I was told, letting the dark blood I had been holding back all day spill into his palm.

Jack carefully cleaned his hands, then came back to my side, his voice tinged with sorrow.

“Why have you been holding it in?”

I offered a sheepish smile and turned away, unwilling to explain.

But with the night growing darker, sleep eluded me.

Jack sat quietly by my bedside, illuminated only by the dim yellow light of the lamp.

Lately, I often woke up in the middle of the night, coughing up large amounts of blood and my sleep was restless.

So he stayed by my side, always within reach as soon as I opened my eyes.

He truly was a remarkably professional person.

It was worth every penny I spent to buy a bit of peace of mind before the end.

Perhaps it was because I couldn’t sleep or maybe my curiosity about him was too strong, but I decided to strike up a conversation.

“Jack, why did you choose to become a hospice caregiver?”

He was young, with the kind of looks that are popular on screen these days.

No matter how you look at it, his tall, striking figure seemed more suited for modeling or a career as a rising star.

Jack was silent for a moment before he began to speak.

His deep, gentle voice took on a misty quality in the night as he unfolded a sorrowful story.

“On my birthday, my mom had ordered a birthday cake from the store and asked my dad to pick it up after work.”

“But it was a torrential downpour that day—rain pouring heavily, thunder crashing and trees being uprooted by the wind.”

“Because of that, my dad got into a car accident on his way to the bakery and died on the spot.”

The young man's voice caught and he sighed deeply before continuing.

“My mom blamed herself for everything. She thought if she hadn’t asked my dad to pick up the cake, none of this would have happened.”

The corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

“But she could have easily blamed me instead, couldn’t she? Yet she didn’t. Instead, she bought paraquat, a highly toxic herbicide, when I wasn’t looking, planning to end her life in a joint suicide with my dad.”

Jack’s eyes reddened as he struggled to keep his voice steady.

“But paraquat doesn’t kill immediately. It slowly and irreversibly damages the heart and lungs, giving enough time for regret but no chance to undo the damage.”

“She held on in the ICU for seven days. There was one miraculous moment when she regained her senses and grasped my hand, crying nonstop.”

“She said she regretted it—that she shouldn’t have left me alone.”

“But it was too late.”

“By the time she was about to leave this world, she couldn’t speak anymore. She took a piece of paper and tremblingly wrote me a final message.”

I held back my tears and asked him, “What did she write?”

Jack lifted his gaze to meet mine, clearly taken aback. He quickly shifted to a more playful tone.

“Well, a dying person doesn’t exactly have the energy to write clearly. It was so messy that it was barely legible.”

He continued, “Fortunately, a family later helped sponsor me, allowing me to finish my education. After graduating from college, I heard that hospice care had a decent salary, so here I am.”

“There isn’t really any special reason.”

I had thought Jack took this job because of his parents, but it turned out to be such a mundane reason.

Still, this was the first time he had opened up about his past to me.

I wiped away the tears at the corners of my eyes, slowly extended my hand from beneath the covers and gently patted his head, stroking and rubbing it.

“You’ve done so well, Jack, taking care of yourself all this time.”

Jack went still, a trace of irritation in his voice as he grumbled.

Yet, beneath my hand, his head tilted closer, drawn to the warmth of my touch.

I couldn’t help but smile. He was such a disingenuous kid, pretending to resist when he clearly reveled in the affection.

Unable to sleep, I lay there awake and Jack seized the moment to probe into my life.

“So, the man you saw today—your ex-husband—what made you marry him in the first place?”

“The man we saw today, your ex-husband—why did you marry him in the first place?”

I was taken aback.

“Why else would I get married? I loved him, so I married him.”

Jack shot me a disdainful look, as if silently criticizing my judgment.

“No, you have to believe me, he wasn’t always like this. There was a gentleness about him that made it impossible not to love him.”

Jack interrupted me.

“And now? Do you still love him?”

His question sent me deep into thought.

Did I still love Oliver?

If marriage had been because of love, did that mean divorce was due to its absence?

I thought, in the end, I wasn't really in a position to answer that question.

I first met Oliver when I was twelve and back then, he was still my older brother.

Angela Mortimer, on the other hand, was my adoptive mother.

After my parents passed away, my grandmother, having spent all her savings on a serious illness, was unable to support me.

It was during this time that Oliver’s mother offered to take me in, as a way to repay a past act of saving her life.

At that time, the Mortimer Family—three of them—had come to the island for a cheerful family vacation.

Angela couldn’t swim and was swept away by a wave while playing by the sea. My mother risked her life to rescue her and that’s how their bond began.

At the time, I was too young to remember much about it.

I only knew that gifts would occasionally arrive during holidays.

When news of my parents' death reached her, Angela came to the island herself.

“Emmy, don’t worry. I will take care of you as if you were my own child. Come with me.”

She was a remarkably kind person and almost without thinking, I placed my hand in hers and followed her.

It was my first time leaving the island, my first glimpse of a bustling city and my first encounter with Oliver.

The young man sat quietly by the window, absorbed in a book—clean and radiant.

He reminded me of the summer sea glistening under the sun, captivating and mesmerizing.

I felt a flutter in my heart. But still, I addressed him obediently.

“Brother.”

He closed the book, revealing a pair of charming teeth and smiled warmly.

“Long time no see, Emma.”

My foster mother enrolled us both in the same middle school and later, the same high school.

Oliver introduced me to all his friends and that’s how I met Luna.

Life with the Mortimer Family was, in fact, quite pleasant.

Angela, my foster mother, worried I might face hardships. So, she gave me a generous allowance—more money than I had ever seen.

I divided it into three parts: one third went to my grandmother, another was donated to secure some blessings for my parents in the afterlife and I kept a small portion for myself.

Despite this windfall, I remained as frugal as ever.

The wealthy kids at school couldn’t hide their disdain for me, the newcomer from the countryside. They would huddle in groups, snickering about the "fishy smell" they claimed I had and would dramatically pinch their noses whenever I walked by.

They would often gather in groups, remarking on the fishy smell they claimed I carried and would deliberately pinch their noses whenever I walked by.

Unable to hold back any longer, I grabbed a bucket of dirty mop water from the restroom and threw it all over them.

Just as their fists were about to land on me, Oliver appeared out of nowhere, wrapping his arms around me and shielding me from every blow.

He ended up with some bruises, but I was unscathed.

When Angela came to pick us up from school, Oliver and I stood in the hallway, laughing and joking, completely unbothered by our punishment.

I realized then that I had feelings for him.

What began as innocent affection during our growing years soon blossomed into something deeper as we spent more time together.

Even though I knew he treated me well only because of our adoption, because I was what he called his sister, this despicable emotion still grew increasingly uncontrollable.

Until he kissed Luna.

On the day of our high school graduation, our class organized a dinner party and played a game of Truth or Dare.

Oliver drew a card that required him to spin the wheel and kiss the designated girl on the cheek for ten seconds.

When the wheel's pointer landed on me, Oliver's embarrassment was visibly apparent.

"Emmy is my sister. It’s totally inappropriate for a brother to kiss his sister."

So he walked over, his ears turning a deep shade of red.

He leaned in with his cool, fragrant body and kissed Luna, who sat next to me with an expectant look on her face.

In those ten seconds of surrounding uproar, my heart shattered completely.

For the first time, I experienced the feeling of getting hopelessly drunk.

I wanted the alcohol to numb this heartache that made it hard to breathe.

Oliver, with a furrowed brow, carried me into the car and drove me home.

"Oliver, do you like Luna?"

He placed me on the soft bed in my bedroom, gently withdrawing his arm from beneath my neck.

Emboldened by the alcohol, I grabbed his collar and steadied my voice to ask him.

I wanted an answer.

Oliver didn’t reply. Instead, he reached out and smoothed my furrowed brow.

"Call me brother," he sighed.

"Be good, Emmy and get some sleep."

I refused to let go, gripping his hand tightly.

"Oliver, do you really not like me at all?"

The bedroom was dark, with only some dazzling moonlight spilling in by the window, casting a beautiful, hazy glow on him.

He remained silent, eerily quiet. Even if he told me he didn’t like me at all and only saw me as a sister. I would give up all my hopes immediately. But he didn't.

I ran out of patience. I pulled his body forcefully and pressed my alcohol-laced lips to his cool ones.

It was a moment of madness.