Chapter 300
Chapter 300
Margaret reached out, her ice-cold fingertips gently brushing against the cold stone of the memorial.
A year ago, Fiona had pulled every string she had, assembling the world's most elite deep-sea salvage team. They conducted a three-month carpet search of the waters where the "Ark" had exploded.
No expense spared. No cost too great.
In the end, they recovered countless twisted metal fragments, confirmed that Ebon's remains were completely destroyed, and even found the tactical knife that had been plunged into Richard's abdomen.
The only thing they didn't find was Richard.
Nobody. No personal belongings. Nothing at all.
As if he, as a person, had been completely erased from this world by that earth-shattering deep-sea implosion.
The official search and rescue had long since stopped. Everyone had accepted the fact that Richard's remains were gone forever. Even his parents, in their overwhelming grief, had held a funeral without a body.
Only she refused to give up.
That salvage team was still operating. Every month, astronomical bills and reports reading "nothing found" arrived punctually on her office desk.
"I need to see him alive, or... I need to see his body."
That's what she'd told Fiona. That's what she'd told herself.
But a year had passed—no sign of life, no body to bury.
He was like a nightmare she could never wake up from, and also like a beautiful dream she could never reach.
---
Thousands of miles away from this bustling metropolis, there was a seaside town so small it barely appeared on maps.
Here, far from the noise and chaos, time itself seemed to slow down.
At the edge of town stood a woodworking shop facing the ocean.
A tall man worked shirtless, focused intently on sanding the piece of wood in his hands.
He had a face that was almost too handsome—sharp features, a high-bridged nose—though his brow had lost some of its edge, softened by the peaceful quality unique to this seaside town.
Sweat traced the defined lines of his muscles as it fell, but he seemed completely unaware, his eyes focused as if he were crafting a priceless treasure.
A seven or eight-year-old girl clutching a colorful ball ran to the doorway, peeking inside curiously. "Rick, is my wooden horse ready yet?"
Rick looked up, and seeing her, his face broke into a gentle smile.
"Almost, Amy. Just a little longer—I want to make it really smooth, so it won't scratch your hands."
His voice was deep and pleasant, but carried a slowness and hesitation that didn't match his appearance.
A year ago, the town's fishermen had found him on a reef far from shore during one of their trips.
He was covered in wounds, barely breathing, and had lost all his memories.
He couldn't remember who he was or where he'd come from.
The doctor said his brain had suffered severe trauma—post-traumatic stress syndrome.
He had nothing on him that could prove his identity, except for a strange bracelet on his wrist.
It was made of several irregularly shaped metal fragments strung together.
The metal pieces looked like they'd been melted at extremely high temperatures and then forcibly solidified under immense pressure, with sharp edges and an incredibly hard texture.
The townspeople were simple and kind-hearted. Seeing him homeless, they took him in.
He was strong and learned quickly. The old carpenter took a liking to him and taught him woodworking.
He was quiet, didn't talk much, and spent most of his time alone in the workshop or sitting on the seaside rocks, watching the sunrise and sunset.
Sometimes he would stare at the metal bracelet on his wrist, lost in thought.
He always felt like it was important.
Like it was left to him by someone very important.
But he couldn't remember.
Whenever he tried to think about these things, his head would throb with needle-sharp pain.
"Rick, what are you thinking about?" Little Amy ran in and tugged at his pants leg.
He snapped back to reality, shook his head, and handed her the finished wooden horse. "All done. Here you go."
"Thank you, Rick!" Amy happily ran off with her wooden horse.
Rick picked up another piece of wood, the planing knife steady and strong in his hands.
Sunlight streamed through the window, falling across his broad back and onto the metal bracelet on his wrist.
The metal fragments reflected a faint, mysterious light.
---
Deep into the night.
Margaret finished processing the last document and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes.
Two items had always sat on her office desk.
A photograph, now somewhat blurred and yellowed with age.
In the picture, a younger version of herself smiled with youthful radiance, while not far behind her, a man in a black windbreaker was turned to look at her.
On his handsome face was an intensity of focus that she hadn't noticed at the time.
She had discovered this photograph while sorting through Richard's belongings, hidden in a secret compartment in his study.
Next to the photograph lay a ring.
Simple in design, with two letters engraved inside the band: RN & MK.
It was the ring she had planned to place on his finger herself a year ago.
Too bad she never got the chance.
Outside the window, the city blazed with lights like a sea of stars.
This was his empire, his dream, and now her battlefield and her prison.
She picked up the cold ring, placed it in her palm, and slowly closed her fingers around it.
She remembered Richard's bloodshot eyes in those final moments when he crashed into Ebon.
When he pushed her toward safety, it wasn't just to keep her alive.
He had pushed his world, his responsibilities, his dreams, and everything he never got the chance to say—all of it—onto her shoulders.
Richard.
You crazy bastard.
With your life, you built me a prison I can never escape.
The first rays of dawn crept through the window.
The light illuminated the photograph and ring on the desk, and also lit up her pale but still determined face.
Past and future, in this moment, were gently covered by sunlight.
The story seemed to be over.
And yet, it seemed like it was just beginning.