Without another glance, she turned and headed for the stairwell.

Martha Cole let out a piercing wail, desperate to follow, but her legs gave out. She collapsed into a chair, unable to steady herself.

Peter Cole sank onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with the gut-wrenching, ragged sobs of a broken man.

Maya Cole didn’t look back.

She descended the stairs, step by rhythmic step, the sound echoing through the empty stairwell. It wasn’t until she stepped outside and the biting wind hit her face that she finally stopped. She leaned against the cold brick wall and slowly slid to the ground.

She covered her face, her shoulders starting to shudder.

There was no sound, only large, heavy tears spilling from between her fingers to splash onto the freezing pavement.

It wasn't that she didn’t feel the pain.

It was just that there was no going back.

***

Hours later, the light above the operating room flickered off.

The surgeon stepped out, looking exhausted but relieved. “The patient is very lucky. The blade missed his heart by only a couple of inches. He lost a lot of blood, but thanks to the quick intervention, he’s out of danger. He just needs plenty of rest.”

Callahan Meyer was wheeled into his room. When he finally woke the following afternoon, his consciousness returned in a rush. A sharp, searing pain radiated from his back, but he ignored it, his eyes snapping open. His voice was raw and raspy.

“Where’s Maya? Where is she?”

Peter and Martha Cole, who had been waiting by the bedside, exchanged a look, carefully avoiding his gaze.

Callahan’s heart sank, a suffocating panic seizing his chest. He lunged into a sitting position, disregarding the tearing sensation in his back, and ripped the IV needle from his hand. Blood welled up instantly.

“Did she leave? Did she leave again?!” His voice rose, distorted by desperation. His eyes were bloodshot and frantic. “Tell me! Did she walk out on me again?!”

Terrified by his manic state, Martha sobbed, “Callahan, please, calm down! Just focus on recovering… Maya, she… she left. She said… she said—”

“What did she say?!” Callahan grabbed Martha’s arm, his grip white-knuckled and harsh.

Martha winced, trembling as she whispered, “She said… don't come looking for her.”

Those four simple words felt like a death sentence.

He slowly released his grip, staring up at the stark white ceiling, and suddenly began to laugh. It was a raspy, wretched sound that grew louder and more frantic until it dissolved into unhinged, hysterical laughter. Tears streamed down his face.

“I owe her a life, I owe her a child, I owe her five years of her youth, I owe her for the countless times I hurt and betrayed her…” he muttered, his eyes unfocused. “How could I ever pay that back? How could I ever make it right?”

“She didn't even… give me the chance to make it up to her…”

The doctors and nurses rushed in at the commotion, pinning him down and administering a sedative.

Under the influence of the medication, Callahan eventually went quiet, though his eyes remained wide open, staring emptily at the ceiling as silent tears slipped into his hairline.

He had lost.

Lost everything, completely and utterly.

Even if he sacrificed his life, he couldn't buy back a single look from her.

***

After Callahan was discharged, he seemed like a different person.

He stopped trying to force his way into her life, choosing instead to linger on the fringes, atoning through a process that bordered on self-destruction.

Every morning, a bouquet of dewy sunflowers appeared outside her apartment door.

Each time, Maya would open the door, look at them with a blank expression, pick them up, and toss them into the trash bin at the end of the hallway.

The café where she used to work quietly changed owners.

The decor shifted from industrial-chic to the warm, bright, rustic aesthetic she had once mentioned in passing.

The manager, all smiles, announced that her wages had been tripled.

The next day, Maya handed in her resignation.

The French language school she attended received an anonymous, massive donation, with the sole condition that all fees for a student named Maya Cole be waived.

A week later, the school received a refund, accompanied by a brief note: *No need.*

When she caught a cold and began to cough, medicine and thermoses of hot honey-lemon tonic would mysteriously appear at her door.

She never touched them, letting them sit until they spoiled and were hauled away by the cleaning staff.

Callahan was like a ghost—everywhere, yet nowhere to be seen.

The winter in Montreal was brutal, and a heavy snowstorm struck without warning.

Maya collapsed in her apartment, burning up with a high fever.

When Ishaan Montgomery couldn't reach her, he panicked and dialed the number Callahan had left behind.

When Callahan smashed the lock and rushed inside, she was already delirious, her cheeks flushed a vibrant, feverish red.

At the hospital, he kept a three-day, three-night vigil, never leaving her side.

When Maya finally woke up and saw the man sitting by her bed—shaggy-bearded and hollow-eyed—her gaze remained as still as a frozen well.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice raspy. “How much was the hospital bill? I’ll pay you back.”

Callahan’s lips twitched in a smile that looked more painful than crying. “Maya, do we really have to be this transactional?”

“We aren't close, are we?” she said, her tone indifferent as she looked away.

It felt as though a blunt object had struck Callahan’s heart.

He stared at her for a few seconds before standing up and stumbling out of the room.

Outside, the snow was falling heavily.

Dressed in a thin hospital gown, with the gauze on his back still soaked through with blood, he stood at the hospital entrance, leaning heavily against the brick wall.

The freezing wind carried flurries like blades, cutting into his exposed skin. He was trembling violently, his face a ghostly pale, but he refused to go back inside.

Ishaan Montgomery chased after him. “Have you lost your mind? Your wounds will get infected! You’re going to die!”

Callahan shook his head, his lips turning a bruised shade of blue. “I owe her.”

He remained standing there, pacing in small, frantic circles to keep from collapsing, his body wracked with tremors through the long night, until the dawn broke and he finally lost his footing, slumping into the deep, heavy snow.

***

Peter and Martha Cole were also trying to repent in their own way.

They waited for an entire day downstairs at Maya’s new apartment building.

When they saw their daughter returning from work, Martha rushed forward, grabbing Maya’s coat sleeves, her hands shaking as she sobbed.

“Maya, Mom was wrong… come home with us, please. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you…”

Maya pried her fingers off one by one, her movements gentle but resolute.

“Mrs. Cole, please respect yourself.”

Peter Cole, tears streaming down his face, stepped forward and blocked her path, his voice cracking with desperation.

“I’m begging you! Please, just give us a chance to talk—to make this right!”