MasukI never saw it coming. One day, the man I loved was just... gone. All I had left was a letter after he proposed to me. The next day, I found out he had married the billionaire's daughter. The pain of his betrayal was unbearable, but the unanswered questions were even worse. Why did he leave? What had I done wrong? A month later, he returns—not just as a widowed billionaire, but as my boss. I’m now his secretary, and he’s full of regret, begging for a second chance. He claims he made a mistake, that he wants me back. But soon, I learn the truth behind his sudden departure—the real reason he left me. And that truth? It cuts deeper than any betrayal could. Now, I have to decide: Will I forgive him, or will I make him regret leaving me forever?
Lihat lebih banyakThe frost returned again, but not as it had before.This time, I felt it before I saw it. It was a low hum in the soil beneath my feet, a vibration that trembled through the wooden boards of the porch and into my bones. When I stepped outside, the air was neither sharp nor still—it was tense, as though the world itself was bracing for something.The stranger was already in the garden, though they weren’t tending to anything. They stood with their hands loose at their sides, eyes on the old tree. Their breath came slow, deliberate.“It’s early,” I said.They didn’t answer.The root’s pulse had changed. It no longer beat in the steady, measured rhythm I had grown used to—it was quicker, uneven, like a drumline preparing for war. The frost that had crept across the garden last time had been silver-white and delicate; now, what formed along the edges of the glade was heavier, thicker, almost metallic in its sheen.I knelt by the rise of earth where the root slept, pressing my palms to the
The frost returned sooner than I thought it would.It came not with the gradual bite of early winter, but in a single night when the wind shifted and the world woke dressed in silver. I stepped into the garden at dawn and saw the thin layer of ice tracing every leaf’s edge like careful handwriting. The air was sharp enough to sting my lungs, but beneath the cold, the ground where the root lay still held its warmth.I knelt there without gloves, brushing my fingertips over the faint rise in the earth. The heartbeat was slower now, deeper, but it was there—steady, unhurried. As if it knew frost could not truly touch it.The children came later, scarves loose around their necks, cheeks bright from the chill. They ran to the glade without looking for me, as though drawn by something older than play. I watched them gather near the pedestal, their laughter softer than usual, like they were keeping from waking something.The stranger stood at the far side of the garden, leaning on the old ra
The first frost did not come as a thief.It came as a guest.The air carried it gently into the garden, as though the season itself had been invited to sit among us. I felt it in the morning mist, in the silvered edges of leaves, in the way breath became visible in the early hours. The children’s laughter didn’t falter—it only came in shorter bursts, their hands warmer when they found mine.I told myself it was just a change of season.But the garden seemed to lean closer, as if trying to whisper something it wasn’t ready to speak aloud.That evening, I walked to the glade.The stones were warm, though the air was cold. The book still rested on the pedestal, a silent witness to years of stories. I expected stillness, but the pages were fluttering—though no wind stirred.I approached.The movement stopped.The page it had turned to was unfamiliar. Not one I—or anyone—had written. The handwriting was not ours, and yet it was as though it knew me.It read:“When the frost comes, so will
The garden did not fade.It unfolded.As if the soil itself had been waiting—patiently, tenderly—for my return, not as someone searching, but as someone who could finally listen.The children played in spirals now, not just games of joy, but rituals of remembering. Each laugh was a thread in the fabric of the moment. Each question they asked was not for an answer, but an opening.And I was not their teacher.I was their witness.I watched as they painted not just with colors, but with truths too wild for language. Their brushstrokes did not describe—they revealed. Some images danced and shifted even as they dried, not trapped by the canvas, but held within it, like songs inside a shell.Then one child—a quiet one, whose presence always felt like punctuation—held up their canvas. It was blank."What's this?" I asked gently.They tilted their head. “It’s the next part.”And something within me stirred. The blankness was not emptiness. It was permission.—That night, I did not sleep.No












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