"But this time, Victor didn't vanish."
I tasted blood in my throat.
"Victor is Grace's family too. I don't want Grace to wake up and see her brother lying there like this..."
"Victor didn't—" I forced the words out, and blood surged up my throat.
After I finished speaking, tears rolled down my cheeks.
A full day and night had passed.
Victor was in my arms. I could feel the changes in his body, but I refused to admit it to myself.
"Victor is not dead."
I repeated it once more, but I was already sobbing uncontrollably.
My eyes went blank, tears streaming ceaselessly.
He was Grace's brother too, Oliver's family, everyone's Young General.
They couldn't bear to see him lying dead on the cold floor, couldn't bear such an undignified end.
But what was I supposed to do?
My heart and lungs and stomach seized with cramps, and I vomited another mouthful of blood.
And blacked out.
I dreamed again.
I dreamed of Victor in his wedding suit, standing with the light behind him.
He reached out his hand toward me: "Rose..."
I stretched with all my might, but I couldn't reach him no matter how hard I tried.
He grew further and further away, his figure fading, and just before he disappeared, he said: "Rose, forget me. Live well."
I sobbed in my dream. When I woke, it was the dead of night, and I was still wearing my wedding dress—the white lace mermaid gown.
I prayed it was all a nightmare. Groggy and unsteady, I got out of bed to find him, but in the front hall I saw a coffin.
Victor lay inside.
So it wasn't a nightmare...
5.
The cramping in my heart spread to spasms in my abdomen.
I remembered that Victor's mother was buried in the cemetery behind the church at the Benevolence Institute.
Naturally, that was where Victor belonged too.
I climbed into the coffin.
My arms wrapped around his body:
"Victor, what do I have to do to make you come back?"
"If you don't wake up, aren't you afraid I'll have another man's baby and spend the rest of my life with someone else?"
As I spoke, another wave of cramps seized my lower abdomen.
I closed my eyes and held Victor's neck tight, thinking maybe I would soon go to join him.
I heard footsteps outside—the steward and Mrs. Lambertu, searching for me.
"Victor, you said I saved you. I've done so many good things—can't someone save me?"
Another bout of stabbing pain in my belly.
"Victor, how do I find you..."
I felt the wooden lid above me being pried open.
Instead of the darkness of night, a blinding light spilled in.
Before me stood a small boy.
He saw me and jumped in surprise.
Then, with cold arrogance, he said: "Who are you? How dare you be in my air-raid shelter?"
His tone was haughty, but it did nothing to conceal his tear-streaked, disheveled face.
I looked up. This wasn't a coffin at all.
It was an enormous mahogany wardrobe.
"Where is this?"
The little boy sighed: "So you're a fool. I just told you—this is my air-raid shelter."
He walked to the bed opposite the wardrobe, hopped up, and crossed his legs with supreme authority.
"Speak. How did you get in? I've never seen you. Who sent you?"
I stepped out of the wardrobe. The room's furnishings were in the style of a Republic-era Western house.
I went to the window.
Beyond it lay a private garden.
Not as grand as the General's Estate, but exquisitely maintained.
"I'm sorry, I really don't know how I got here. Could you take me out? I need to go back to the General's Estate. I'm Victor Vane's... wife."
The whole city knew Victor was dead. The word "widow" scorched my throat.
The boy's eyes went wide:
"Your husband is also named Victor Vane?"
Like a little adult, he crossed his arms over his chest and walked in a circle around me.
"You're pretty, but a bit foolish."
I was thoroughly confused.
He nodded: "Your husband shares my name—quite a coincidence, I suppose. I just don't know anything about a General's Estate...
My father has a terrible temper and an awful attitude, but he's actually very kindhearted. He'd definitely be willing to help you."
He kept on talking, while I felt my ears ringing and my vision swimming. I grabbed his shoulders:
"Your name is Victor Vane too?"
Before he could answer, my vision went black from low blood sugar, and I collapsed on the floor.
When I woke, gauzy white curtains billowed beside the bed.
A small hand held mine, its head resting on the edge of the mattress.
Feeling me stir, the little boy sat up at once:
"Miss, you're awake!"
He eagerly opened a thermos from the nightstand, poured out a bowl of bird's nest soup, and liberally sprinkled it with sugar.
"The doctor says you have a little baby. You need to eat more."
I touched my stomach in astonishment, then immediately felt the nausea of low blood sugar rise in my throat.
But that knife-twisting pain in my belly was gone.
I must have physically traveled back over ten years.
The only explanation was that the child inside me had inherited Victor's ability to traverse time.
When my life was in danger, the child had brought me back over a decade.
I forced myself up, trying to get out of bed.
The boy sighed: "Fine, you're so weak, I'll just feed you myself."
He grabbed an extra pillow, propped it behind my neck, and carefully spooned the food into my mouth, one bite at a time.
"My father will be back in a couple of days. When he comes, we'll ask him to help find your husband."
"Your name... is Victor Vane?"
My dizziness had eased. I asked the question cautiously.
"Yes. 'Far from trouble'—that's what my mother named me. It's just the surname that's no good."
He critiqued his own father without the slightest hesitation.
Looking more closely at his face—his eyebrows, his eyes—were so familiar.
I couldn't resist reaching for his cheek, still rounded with childhood baby fat.
A warmth surged to my nose.
Though he disliked me pinching his cheek, he didn't pull away:
"Don't go moving around. The doctor said your baby is fine, but you need to rest and take care of yourself."
I was already certain in my heart, but I asked one more question: "Is your older sister named Grace Vane?"
He looked surprised: "How do you know that?"
Then, as if remembering something: "Do you know my sister? Is that why you came here to escape trouble? My sister isn't home right now, though."
6.
This was a standalone villa in the International Settlement.
The day I arrived happened to be Victor's birthday.
His mother died in childbirth giving birth to him, and so his father never celebrated his birthday.
This year, on his tenth birthday, his father had even left the house for a few days.
Grace had just left for France to study abroad. Though she'd sent a birthday card and gifts in advance, Victor was only ten years old.
Living alone, with no one to celebrate his birthday, save for one cream cake that the old housekeeper bought for him.
That was why he couldn't hold back his tears, but fearing someone might see, he'd climbed into the wardrobe to hide and cry.
This wardrobe was the "air-raid shelter" he'd mentioned.
And because he'd found a mysterious woman in distress in his shelter, this birthday was no longer boring.
My hand rested on my stomach. When the pain wasn't there, my belly was so flat it looked as if nothing had changed.
"You said my baby is healthy?"
He nodded earnestly: "Yes! When I saw how pale you were, I was worried something might go wrong. The doctor said you're both healthy, just a bit malnourished. So you need to rest well at my house. Once we find your husband, he can protect you."
I smiled and blinked, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes:
"Victor... can I hug you?"
He raised an eyebrow as if he'd heard something preposterous.
Then, resigned, he set down the porcelain bowl, closed his eyes, and opened his arms:
"Fine. Since you're carrying a baby, I'll make an exception for you."
I leaned forward with a smile and wrapped my arms around the young Victor, resting my chin on his still-narrow shoulders. I heard his tentative voice:
"If... if you can't find your husband..."
He paused, seeming to realize his words might be inappropriate.
"I mean, just in case—if you have no one to rely on—you can stay at my house."
I patted his back: "Thank you."
"Oh, right."
He seemed to remember something, slipped out of my arms, and dashed from the room.
A moment later, he came back carrying an entire cake:
"Today is my birthday. I don't like sweets, so you can have the cake."
He was missing a tooth at the front. I couldn't help but laugh.
My strength somewhat restored, I got out of bed and carefully stuck ten candles into the white cream cake on the tea table.
I struck a match and lit them.
"Victor, make a birthday wish."
The warm light illuminated his face—innocent and tender, yet already touched with that haughty streak: "You make it. I have everything. No need to waste the opportunity."
I smiled: "It's your birthday. My wish won't work."
Hearing that, he closed his eyes devoutly, pressed his palms together, and whispered: