Chapter 1

After Silas passed away, I was consumed by a grief I couldn't escape.

I found his old leather-bound diary, written entirely in German, a language he loved but I never understood.

When my niece returned from her semester abroad in Berlin, I asked her to read a few pages to me.

I thought I would hear words of devotion to the wife who had stood by him for forty years.

Instead, she let out a small, awkward laugh.

"Uncle Silas was such a romantic, wasn't he? These are all love letters."

"Every single entry starts the same way: My dearest Hannah."

The world turned cold as her words hit me like a physical blow.

All those years of supposed mutual devotion were nothing but a carefully crafted lie.

I didn't have a German name, and I certainly wasn't a Hannah.

But his high school sweetheart, the one he claimed to have forgotten, was named Hannah Chen.

The diary was a shrine to his undying obsession with her.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in our drafty apartment, thirty-five years in the past.

This time, I refuse to be the victim of his cold shoulder and silent betrayals.

I'm choosing to let us both go.

1.

The ceiling was a stark, blinding white, making my head throb.

I shifted slightly under the thin sheets, and the man beside me tensed, rolling over to face away.

I stared at him―Silas Miller in his early twenties.

He had that sharp, intellectual beauty that had once made my heart skip a beat.

Now, looking at him, I only felt a hollow ache.

Beautiful men often have the coldest hearts.

He sensed my gaze and knit his brows in an expression of pure annoyance.

That look was so familiar it made my chest tighten with a phantom pain.

It was the look that had defined years of emotional neglect.

On mornings like this, he never had a kind word for me.

It was either icy silence or a sarcastic remark that cut deeper than a knife.

I glanced at the calendar on the nightstand: June 12, 1988.

In 1988, we had been married for exactly three years.

I gripped the edge of the mattress as a wave of nausea rolled through me.

"Silas…" I whispered, my voice sounding fragile and thin.

He gave me a fleeting, frigid glance.

"Since you're awake, get up and make breakfast. Don't just lie there like a lump."

"Silas, I think my gastritis is flaring up again. It's bad. Can you take me to the clinic?"

I bit my lip, almost hating myself for the pleading tone in my voice.

He paused for a second, then continued buttoning his crisp white shirt in front of the mirror.

Before we married, his scholarly, refined demeanor had been my weakness.

Now, seeing him ignore my pain felt like a cruel joke.

"I have things to do," he said finally. "Go yourself."

I watched him step into his shoes, knowing exactly where he was headed.

He was going to Hannah's wedding.

Years ago, he had abandoned me at a family funeral just to attend her college graduation.

"Silas…" I called out, my voice trembling with a realization I hadn't had the first time around.

He looked back, his eyes brimming with impatience.

It was as if he were asking: What could you possibly want now?

In his world, I was just a placeholder, a convenience to keep his parents off his back.

In three years of marriage, he had barely touched me.

Our most intimate moment was the dry, obligatory kiss he gave me on the day we signed the papers.

"I'm in so much pain," I said, cold sweat beads forming on my forehead. "Can't you see that?"

He let out a short, mocking laugh and walked out the door without a second glance.

I knew then that I didn't exist to him.

I never had.

I dragged myself out of bed, the room spinning as I dressed in a daze.

I made it to the hospital through sheer willpower.

The doctor told me it was acute gastritis brought on by chronic stress and a poor diet.

He insisted I stay for observation for a few days.

Lying in that hospital bed, staring at the grey Ohio sky, I realized I was at a crossroads.

Was I really going to repeat that miserable, shadow of a life?

No. Not this time.

This time, I was going to live for myself.