Chapter 211: The Old Man Wakes Up

Elvis stormed into the study, scattering papers across the desk. He ripped off his tie, tossed it to the floor, and squeezed his eyes shut, reopening them to reveal bloodshot redness. He recognized the familiar symptoms of his worsening mental state. All he wanted was Olive. Overwhelmed by discomfort and the image of her face, he began to sweat. Unable to control himself, he grabbed a bottle of sleeping pills from a drawer, swallowed three, and hoped for oblivion, a sleep untroubled by Olive.

Dawn broke. Olive found Mrs. Samantha setting the table. The old woman's loving smile faltered. "Olive, you're awake. What's wrong with your eyes? They're swollen." She peered at Olive's tear-swollen face, still puffy despite a hot compress.

"Grandma, it's nothing serious," Olive lied. "I was working on my thesis and stayed up late."

"What sort of thesis requires all-night writing? You can write during the day. Don't stay up late again. Lack of sleep affects your productivity. Get enough rest, okay?" Mrs. Samantha advised gently.

Olive nodded sadly, concealing her troubles with Elvis. Even without his warning, she would have kept their problems a secret.

Phoebe meowed and rubbed against her. Olive hugged the cat, stroking its soft fur.

"By the way, Olive, why isn't Elvis up yet? He rarely sleeps this late," Mrs. Samantha remarked.

Despite their problems, Olive worried about Elvis. She wondered if he'd slept at all.

"Grandma, I'll check on him." Taking Phoebe, she headed upstairs to the study.

She knocked. Elvis remained unresponsive. The sleeping pills he’d taken had been an overdose. Yet, inexplicably, he heard the knock and his eyes fluttered open. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, his head throbbing. He knew, without looking, he looked terrible.

Another knock, then the door opened, revealing Olive, radiant in a long, pale yellow dress, her hair tucked behind her ears.

Elvis was startled. He hadn't expected her.

Olive stood in the doorway, watching him but not entering.

"Grandma asked me to check on you," she said quietly.

"Understood," Elvis replied, lifting the blanket. The sleeping pills were still in his hand; he'd forgotten to put them away.

Olive entered slowly. "Are you alright? How did you sleep? Can I check your pulse?" She started to approach.

Elvis narrowed his eyes, quickly covering the pills with the quilt. Olive paused, Phoebe at her side. He didn't want her to see the pills, didn't want her care. He didn't want anything from her anymore.

"You don't understand privacy, do you? Get out!" He hurled a pillow at her face.

Olive didn't dodge. Though the pillow was light, the blow felt far heavier than its weight, shattering her heart. Tears welled in her eyes, and she fled the study.

Elvis clenched his fist, letting out a pained sigh. Phoebe began to cry. He looked down at her. It was he who had bought Phoebe, yet the cat’s affection belonged entirely to Olive.

Olive, suppressing her emotions, went to the hospital to visit old Mr. Hart. He lay unconscious. Olive brought warm water and a towel, gently cleaning his body.

"Grandpa, please wake up soon. You're my only relative left in Los Angeles," she whispered sadly, continuing to bathe him. He had loved her dearly, carrying her on his shoulders as a child.

North entered, offering comfort. "Olive, it's okay. Don't worry. He'll wake up soon."

Olive nodded, clutching his hand.

"Olive, look!" North exclaimed, startled.

Olive turned to see Mr. Hart's fingers twitching. Slowly, his eyes opened. He was awake!

The dream of his awakening was now reality, shocking and overwhelming.

"Grandpa, you're awake!" she cried joyfully.

He'd been in a vegetative state for over ten years. His speech was clouded, confused.

"Little Miss," he mumbled weakly.

Happiness radiated from Olive's eyes. She squeezed his hand. "Grandpa, I'm not Little Miss. I'm your granddaughter, Olive."

He shook his head. "Olive is my Little Miss. My young mistress."