Chapter 167

Reborn, I was no longer the carefree spirit I once was. My emotions and desires, dormant after a period of emptiness, surged back with overwhelming force, like wild horses or a flood. I felt utterly helpless.

The wind's whisper faded. Nicole had just exited the car; I registered her speaking, but her words were lost to me. The towering sculpture loomed like a lighthouse in the night, and I felt like a tiny boat, inexorably drawn towards it.

Reaching the statue, I found it dusted with unmelted snow. My tears fell, melting the snow and creating tiny indentations. To onlookers, I must have seemed entranced. I was oblivious to their calls; my hand trembled as I brushed snowflakes from the sculpture.

It felt strange. This was my body, yet it felt like greeting a dearly missed friend. My emotions were a tangled mess; I couldn't decipher them. A heavy, persistent sadness clung to me.

"Amelia, what are you doing?" Nicole asked, attempting to pull me away. But my mind was elsewhere, fixated on a single thought: She's so cold.

I was Amanda, yet not just Amanda. Ignoring the cold that reddened my hands, I continued wiping the snow from the statue. Then Derek's voice cut through the haze: "Don't forget, you're injured! Do you want to die again?"

Rosie's cut wasn't fatal, but any sudden movement risked reopening it. A second injury could be far worse. His words were a chilling shock.

Die? I didn't want to die. The thought was terrifying. The unbearable loneliness was worse.

Dazed, tears streamed down my face, my eyes red and swollen. Chase intervened, "Amelia, something's not right. You should go upstairs and rest."

My heart pounded wildly as Nicole helped me to my feet. "Amelia, what's going on? Should we take you to a hospital?"

I didn't answer, turning for one last look. In the vast whiteness, Derek sat alone in his wheelchair. He gazed at the statue's face, an expression of profound sorrow I'd never witnessed before.

Snow fell heavily, yet he remained oblivious, isolated with the statue. My strength ebbed, and darkness consumed me as I collapsed.

Before losing consciousness, I saw Chase reach for me. "Amanda."

Years of suppressed emotion flooded him; he caught me, carrying me upstairs. Nicole followed. Once I was laid on the guest room bed, she whispered, "What are you doing? She's Rosie, not Amanda!"

Chase looked at my face, pain flickering in his eyes. "She looks so much like Amanda, especially from the side. When I can't see the mole on her brow, I can't help but think she's Amanda…"

Chase's explanation was laced with helplessness. Despite Nicole's assertions, while he might believe them in the heat of the moment, longing ultimately prevailed. We've known each other for nearly twenty years—too long for our past to be erased so easily.

Chase was perpetually on the brink of breaking and rebuilding; perhaps in his darkest moments he hated me, but in the long stretches of yearning, his rational mind slowly yielded.