Chapter 40 Coma
Cecilia's voice was quiet—so quiet it might have been mistaken for a sigh—yet every syllable landed in Rufus's chest like a sledgehammer. The weight of her words left no room for breath.
When she finished speaking, it was as if the strength had drained from her body all at once. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled backward, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Beside her, a dark splash of blood bloomed against the cold tiles.
It was the kind of shock that could break even a healthy body. For Cecilia, already worn down to her last reserves, it was devastating.
She closed her eyes, exhaustion pressing down on her like a leaden shroud. This time, there was no spark left to fight, no urge to argue. Everyone she had ever cared for was gone, and the last ember of her will to live had been snuffed out—by Rufus's own hand.
She no longer wanted to live. And if she didn't care about life, she certainly didn't care what Rufus thought.
Rufus felt something shift—something intangible, yet unmistakable. The sensation of events slipping beyond his control gnawed at him, an irritation that grew sharper by the second.
Perhaps to reclaim some shred of authority, he said, "Everything that's happened… you brought it on yourself. You created this mess."
Her eyes flared crimson, but she held the tears back with stubborn defiance. Her whole body trembled.
"Say that again?" she demanded, disbelief cutting through her voice.
She hadn't imagined Rufus would use Patrick's death as a weapon against her.
Even Rufus faltered, momentarily thrown by the sight of her like this. But the pause was brief. He straightened, his tone unyielding. "Cecilia, wake up. Stop acting as if you've sacrificed so much for your grandfather. The truth is, you're the reason he's dead."
The words struck like a physical blow. A sudden cough wracked her body, and another mouthful of blood spilled past her lips.
She opened her mouth, perhaps to refute him, but what came was only more blood, warm and metallic, flooding her tongue.
Seeing her like this rattled Rufus in a way he couldn't hide. Even his usual composure fractured. He moved without thinking, catching her as she slumped backward, his eyes betraying raw panic.
Cecilia stared at his face—at the way his mouth moved, forming words she couldn't quite catch, at the way concern twisted his features. And yet, in that moment, he felt like a stranger to her, fragmented and unfamiliar.
She was so tired.
Rufus scooped her up in his arms, holding her against him as he strode for the door. "Cecilia, don't you dare close your eyes!" he barked, voice tight with urgency.
She heard him—dimly, distantly—but didn't answer. She was too weary, too ready to let go. All she wanted was to sleep… to sink into darkness and stay there.
Feeling the faint, faltering rhythm of her breathing, Rufus clenched his jaw and quickened his pace. In that moment, only one thought consumed him: he could not let Cecilia die.
Sleep took her quickly, and with it came a dream. In it, she found herself as a shadow of her younger self, standing beside Patrick as he had been years ago.
His hair was less gray then, his frame still strong. He loved nothing more than to pass an idle afternoon listening to music and sipping tea.
As a child, Cecilia had insisted on going with him, climbing into his lap as they watched stage plays. She would laugh until she nearly toppled over, her small hands clutching his coat.
She didn't understand the stories, not really. Once, she tugged at his sleeve and asked, "Patrick, who's the good guy and who's the bad guy?"
Patrick had smiled, lifting her high above his head. "The world isn't just black and white," he told her. "It's not that simple to decide who's good and who's bad."
Back then, she hadn't understood. Now, she did.
Rufus was proof. Meeting him had been nothing short of a calamity. She had kept his memory alive for years, clinging to their promises, living alone in its shadow. And in the end, he had treated her as nothing more than a means to prolong another woman's life—and had cost Patrick his own.
Yet to Blair, Rufus's love was a rare treasure.
Good and bad… the lines blurred until they vanished.
By now, Cecilia knew she was dreaming. But she didn't want to wake. In this place, she could stay with Patrick. Waking meant facing the truth: Patrick was gone.
She refused.
She would rather spend eternity in this phantom world, guarding the phantom Patrick, than return to a reality soaked in blood.
In the real world, Cecilia had been unconscious for a week, sustained only by a drip of glucose.
Rufus had stayed by her side for all seven days, ignoring Blair entirely. Blair had come by a few times under the guise of concern, probing for any sign of Rufus's feelings.
He showed no obvious change, but Blair sensed something—distance, coolness. The realization set off warning bells in her mind, though she could do nothing about it. Rufus watched Cecilia too closely now; there was no chance to act.
Blair even began to regret stopping Cecilia from jumping that day. But it was far too late for regrets.
One afternoon, during a routine check, Rufus finally voiced the question that had been gnawing at him. "Why hasn't she woken up yet?"
The attending physician scanned the charts and sighed. "Ms. Thorne's physical indicators have returned to normal."
"So… she's choosing not to wake?" Rufus murmured, half to himself, half to the doctor.
The physician nodded. "Ms. Thorne lacks the will to live. It's likely she's avoiding reality, which is why she hasn't regained consciousness."
"How long will she stay like this?" Rufus's gaze lingered on her face.
"There's no telling," the doctor admitted. "She might wake tomorrow… or never. The longer she sleeps, the less likely she is to wake at all. And prolonged unconsciousness can weaken her organs. The most obvious effect will be muscle atrophy in her legs."
Rufus's voice tightened. "Is there any way to bring her back?"
The doctor hesitated before answering. "The best chance is for Ms. Thorne to wake on her own. That requires external stimuli. I suggest talking to her every day."
After thanking the doctor, Rufus changed his approach. No more silent vigil—he began speaking to her, weaving threads of memory into the sterile air.
"You know," he began, "I used to think you were ordinary. Beautiful, yes… but too bound by convention."
He chuckled softly. "Then, at our wedding, when I took your hand from your grandfather and saw the tears trembling in your eyes… I realized you were anything but ordinary."
The memory drew a faint smile to his lips.
He kept talking, watching for any flicker of response. But minutes stretched into hours, and Cecilia remained still, her eyes closed, her body unmoving—like a porcelain doll, perfect and cold.
Even when he spoke of Patrick, she gave nothing back.
"You really are cold," Rufus muttered. "Your grandfather's barely gone, and you don't care at all?"
The words faded, leaving only a heavy silence. And in that silence, Rufus felt the weight of his own melancholy settle over him.