Chapter 60 up
“Sir, visiting hours are almost over.”
The receptionist’s voice was flat, nearly drowned out by the sound of Clark’s own heartbeat. His hand clenched a single white flower—a fresh lily, its petals chilled by the air conditioning. His fingers trembled, not because he hesitated to go in, but because he feared what he might see.
Clark walked slowly down the therapy wing. Every step felt heavy, as if he were dragging a past he had never truly left behind. The scent of antiseptic mixed with warm tea filled the air, creating a false sense of calm that only tightened his chest.
Then he stopped.
At the end of the corridor, in front of Therapy Room Seven, someone was already there.
Vincent.
The man did not stand too close. He kept his distance, leaving space, as if his presence were not a demand. In his hand was a bouquet too—not white, but pale yellow, simple, without excessive ribbons. Vincent inclined his head slightly, speaking in a low voice Clark could not hear from where he stood.
Nyla was standing in front of him.
Her hair was tied back simply, her face thinner than the last time Clark had seen her, but her eyes… her eyes were different. Clearer. More aware. There was no fear darting aimlessly anymore. No trace of the woman trapped in that dark cage.
Vincent offered the flowers.
Nyla took them.
Without hesitation.
Without looking left or right.
Without turning toward Clark.
Clark felt his chest collapse, slowly.
He stood frozen, half-hidden by the wall, half by the sudden shame that washed over him. He saw Nyla smile faintly—not a wide smile, not a laugh, but a calm one. A smile that asked for nothing. A smile that owed nothing to anyone.
“Thank you,” Nyla said, her voice gentle yet firm.
“If you don’t want them, I can take them home,” Vincent replied.
Nyla shook her head slightly. “No. I want to keep them.”
That simple sentence pierced Clark more deeply than any scream could have.
He lowered his gaze to the flowers in his own hand. White. Too white. Too clean for hands once stained by lies, by broken promises, by pity he had mistaken for love.
He came carrying regret.
Vincent came carrying presence.
And for the first time, Clark truly saw the difference.
Vincent did not touch Nyla. He did not step too close. He simply stood there, making sure she was not alone—without claiming anything. After a few seconds, he gave a small nod and stepped back.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “No need to rush.”
Nyla nodded.
Vincent turned away.
His steps were light, unhurried, never looking back. When he passed Clark, their eyes met briefly. There was no triumph in Vincent’s gaze. No challenge. Only a quiet acknowledgment—that they were standing in different places now.
Clark swallowed.
Vincent left.
The corridor fell silent again.
Nyla stood alone in front of the therapy room door, holding the yellow flowers. She did not turn around. She did not look for anyone. She simply took a breath, then opened the door and went inside.
The door closed softly.
And Clark was left outside.
Alone.
He stood there for a long time. Too long for someone who should have already left. The flowers felt heavier in his hand, as if thorns had grown from the stem and pierced his palm.
Why do I always arrive after everything has already happened?
The question echoed in his mind, over and over, without an answer.
He remembered every moment Nyla had needed certainty—and he had given her confusion. When she needed courage—and he had given her delay. When she needed protection—and he had been busy protecting others in the name of guilt.
Clark closed his eyes.
I always come with apologies after wounds have hardened into scars.
He stepped back, away from the door. Each step felt like an admission that his place was no longer there. That his presence had become nothing more than a shadow of a past no longer relevant.
Near the elevator, a trash bin stood quietly.
Clark stopped in front of it.
He looked at the white flower one last time. Its petals were still intact. Beautiful. Untouched. Like the love he should have given from the beginning—not now, not after everything had fallen apart.
His hand trembled.
Then he let it go.
The flower landed softly inside the bin, stark against the black plastic lining around it. It looked out of place. It looked too late.
Clark stared at it for a few seconds, then smiled bitterly.
“Some apologies never arrive,” he murmured.
The elevator doors opened.
Clark stepped inside without looking back.
And in that therapy corridor, for the first time, he truly let go.