Chapter 67

Chapter 67
Georgiana stood at the intersection, feeling utterly lost. Her phone had died, severing her last connection to the world.
She couldn't return to the network—not after everything that had happened. And her father's house? That place had never truly been her refuge.
When the traffic light turned green, she moved forward with the crowd, her eyes unconsciously scanning the faces flowing toward her from the opposite direction.
Deep inside, she hoped fate might intervene again for another chance encounter with Michael.
But this time, their luck seemed to have run out. Among the sea of strangers' faces, his was nowhere to be found.
Georgiana wandered through half the city alone, her feet carrying her forward without conscious direction. As she turned a corner into a narrow alley, she looked up and froze.
Michael stood at the entrance, in the exact spot where he had dropped her off in his car last year.
He had clearly been waiting in the cold for some time. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his face pale from the chill, but his eyes remained clear and bright.
He watched her silently, with that same look he'd given her at the airport terminal—tender, sad, yet somehow more resolute. In that instant, all the bitterness and hurt she'd been carrying rose like floodwaters inside her.
Georgiana could barely breathe. She immediately moved toward him, but Michael spoke first: "Georgiana, I need to tell you something."
"I lied!" she blurted out, cutting him off, her eyes locked on his. "These past six months—I haven't been fine. I haven't been fine at all."
She tilted her head back, forcing a smile. "When I smiled at you, it was fake. When I said I was happy, that was fake too. All that talk about my family being okay and work going well—all of it was a lie. I was pretending." Her voice cracked. "Just like now..." She stretched her lips into a grimace, an ugly attempt at a smile while tears filled her eyes. "See? I'm having a great day. That's a lie. I'm telling so many lies. Today feels like dying. Every day feels like dying. I—"
"I lied to you too," Michael said softly, a faint smile touching his lips. His eyes shimmered, whether from emotion or unshed tears, it was impossible to tell. "I told you I was doing fine, that everything was going well, that bomb disposal was too dangerous and I didn't care anymore. All lies." He shook his head slightly, his smile heartbreaking. "The truth is... I'm useless now."
He looked up at the sky, inhaling sharply, his eyes reddening as he fought to control the tremor in his voice. "I'm sorry. Yesterday I shouldn't have said those things to you. I didn't know about the 'Candy' situation, didn't understand the pressure you've been under... I only tried to stop you, questioned your judgment because I've been through hell myself and was afraid you'd end up there too. I'm so—"
"No!" she shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "I'm the one who should apologize. I said terrible things to you. Please don't be angry..." Her voice broke. "It's my fault—my emotional instability... my stubbornness that created this whole situation. I should never have been a journalist. I've been wrong all along... But please don't be angry. Can we not fight? Because you're all I have left... only you..."
She was sobbing now, her face wet with tears, words becoming impossible: "I... can't tell anyone else. Michael, don't you understand... I can't tell..."
He lowered his head until his forehead rested against her hair. "I know," he whispered.
I know you can't tell anyone else.
Because I'm the same way.
Because there's no such thing as true empathy in this world;
Because saying it aloud feels like admitting, why am I the only one so fragile? Why am I the only one so powerless?
Soldiers who return from the battlefield to peaceful countries find people laughing and smiling, no one hearing the explosions that still echo in their memories.
In this peaceful era, war had left deep scars on them both—ugly, private, unspeakable marks.
Outsiders who glimpsed these wounds either gawked with morbid curiosity or dismissed them entirely. They couldn't see the bone-deep agony beneath the scar tissue; they didn't understand how wounds that seemed healed could still cause unbearable pain on rainy days.
Now, after all their wandering, they'd finally found someone else who'd returned from the same battlefield—haggard, desperate, eyes filled with the same desolation; someone with identical scars that caused the same excruciating pain night after night.
Just like the white olive trees they'd seen that day.
People who hadn't witnessed it would never believe such a magnificent sight could exist, would never understand that moment of tenderness in the universe.
Those who hadn't seen would loudly proclaim: "White olive trees can't possibly exist!"
But they knew. White olive trees were real.
Because that day, he and she had seen them together.
February was down to its final day, the weather still bitterly cold. She opened the door and walked in, with Michael following behind, pausing briefly to glance at the floor in the entryway.
Georgiana went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Looking up, she caught her reflection in the mirror—her eyes swollen and red. She looked terrible.
When she returned, Michael was sitting on the sofa, slightly hunched as he warmed himself. Despite being inside for several minutes, he still looked cold, the chill not yet gone from his body.
"Were you waiting long?" she asked.
"A while," he replied. "Your phone wasn't working."
"It died."
"About that case," Michael said suddenly. "I think you might have been right."
"But you were right too. Joseph deceived me... well, not exactly deceived. He fabricated about one percent of the facts."
They had both been right, and they had both been wrong.
"Do you know how I felt when I first saw 'Candy'?" Michael asked. "The world in that photograph felt sorrowful, bleak. But also proud, grateful." He paused. "Because I knew the photographer. She showed the world a country's suffering. Knowing her made me feel honored." Michael's voice softened. "My reassurance probably doesn't mean much, but I believe only those who've fought alongside you have the right to judge you. I think," he looked directly into her eyes, "I at least have more right to speak than those who don't know you."
Georgiana felt a sudden ache in her throat and quickly lowered her head. "What about you? Is it still your hearing?"
"For normal sounds, it's fine," Michael said, sitting back down. Seeing Georgiana still watching him stubbornly, he slowly added the truth: "Sometimes there's ringing, moments of silence."
"It's not serious most of the time, but at work," he rubbed the bridge of his nose, "if I have to deal with explosives..."
Georgiana understood immediately. "What do the doctors say?"
"Traumatic stress response. Because I was injured by a bomb, my body developed an instinctive aversion."
"Can it be cured?"
"I don't know." He rubbed his hands together vigorously, his expression clouded. "They say it depends on time, but no one knows how long."
Georgiana silently studied his hands—those bomb disposal hands, long-fingered with strong knuckles. Amanda had once said they were hands that could play piano.
Instead of offering empty comfort, she suddenly asked: "Do you want to return to your former position?"
He remained silent.
After a moment, as he prepared to speak, she whispered: "Tell the truth. Heaven is listening."
Michael bit his lower lip before answering: "Very much."
For six months, he'd numbed himself, pretended not to care, refused to admit defeat, and avoided confronting his deepest desires. But in this moment, he absurdly found himself hopeful—if acknowledging his true feelings could bring good fortune, he was willing to face his discontent.
Georgiana seemed to silently mouth something to herself, then nodded firmly, almost speaking to herself: "It will get better."
Michael suddenly laughed softly, his brow furrowed: "That's some halfhearted reassurance."
"It's true. If you desperately want something badly enough, it will happen."
Michael clearly didn't believe this unscientific idea. "Who says? You?"
"It's my personal experience. The things I've desperately wanted have all come true..."
Just like her prayer for his appearance—God seemed to have genuinely answered her wish.