Chapter 3

When I drifted into the hospital room, Mom was carefully moistening Iris's lips with a cotton swab.

Dad stood by the bed, his gaze fixed on Iris's bandaged eyes—

That intense focus, I had experienced it, or so I thought, and yet, it felt alien now.

He was rarely home back then. Even when he was, he mostly stayed in his study.

For me, he almost always gave me whatever I asked for.

No matter what it was, if I mentioned it, it would appear by my bedside the next day.

I once thought he was naturally serious, that men simply didn't know how to express love.

Because his gaze towards me always held a veil of impenetrable distance.

Now, that barrier had suddenly vanished.

A few days later, the bandages were removed. Iris opened her eyes and softly called out, "Dad."

Just that one word, and my father's eyes welled up.

He pulled her into a tight hug, his shoulders trembling slightly.

I had called him "Dad" countless times, always met with a controlled smile.

It wasn't that he couldn't get emotional; he just never got emotional for me.

Back home, there was no memorial, no photo.

The family picture on the mantelpiece was gone, along with the teapot and slippers I'd given them. Everything.

All traces of me were wiped clean, with a chilling speed that sent shivers through my translucent form.

Perhaps it was for the best.

They wouldn't have to grieve over my things.

People had to move on, right?

"Welcome home."

Dad held Iris's hand, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it.

He led her through every corner, as if she were the true owner of this house.

Finally, they stopped at my old room.

It was empty, the walls stark white—freshly painted.

"This will be your art studio," Mom said, her voice filled with anticipation. "You mentioned wanting to learn painting before."

Iris nodded gently.

I remembered when Iris had mentioned wanting to paint, Mom had dismissed her, saying, "There's no spare room." So swift, so definite.

It wasn't that she lied.

She was just waiting—

Waiting for me to leave, waiting for Iris to see again.

But how could a blind person be so keen on painting?

The question flickered, then I quickly pushed it down.

Iris could see now; it was perfectly normal for her to want to paint.

Watching Mom gently stroke Iris's hair, an incredibly blurry fragment flashed through my mind.

It was like when I was very young, Mom had touched my head like that, humming a song.

Dad brought a picture book and sat beside Iris.

"Look, these are Monet's Water Lilies. Aren't the colors beautiful?"

His fingers gently traced the pages, his eyes soft.

I suddenly recalled the art book he gave me for my birthday last year; it had been placed on the highest shelf, still in its wrapping.

"Aubrey, your health isn't good. Don't strain yourself with such taxing things," he'd said then.

Thinking about it now, he was right.

My fragile body shouldn't have wished for too much.

Iris looked up, then suddenly asked, "Would Aubrey have liked these paintings?"

The air instantly froze.

Mom and Dad's smiles stiffened.

"Don't mention her."

Mom's voice was barely a whisper, yet it struck my heart like a tiny hammer.

"Your sister, she..." Dad hesitated, finally just patting Iris's head. "The most important thing now is for your eyes to recover well."

My heart ached slightly, but then I quickly let it go.

They were just afraid of upsetting Iris by bringing me up.

After all, the surgery had just finished; emotional fluctuations weren't good for recovery.

I watched the three of them sitting in the sunlight, looking so happy and content.

This was good.

Iris could see, and Mom and Dad no longer had to worry about me.

My sacrifice was worth it.

Still, for some reason, my chest ached.

Even though my heart was no longer beating.