Semua Bab My Ex, the Widowed Billionaire: Bab 161 - Bab 168

This morning, the mist arrived before the light.It clung not like fog, but like a story forgotten in a dream—thin, but insistent. I stepped into it without caution. I’ve learned that here, the veil is not always meant to be lifted. Sometimes, it is to be walked with.In the hush, I met Yren.He was humming a tune older than memory. Not ancient—primordial. The kind of sound that could stitch broken sleep or guide seeds through soil. He didn’t stop when he saw me. He only stepped aside, inviting me to walk beside the hum.He held a vessel in both hands: not a cup, not a bowl, but something in between. It was made of memorywood—carved by hands that had let go of needing to own. Inside it swirled something silver and weightless. I didn’t ask what it was.He said, “I’ve been gathering moments that almost happened.”I nodded. Here, that meant I understood.We walked until the mist opened into a clearing I didn’t know existed yesterday. But I didn’t feel surprised. Only ready.At the center

This morning, the garden whispered first.Not in words, but in shift—a gentle lean of petal toward light not yet risen.The mirrors on the tree had dulled in the night, not with dust, but with reverence. As if even reflection required rest. I moved quietly among them, each surface stirring slightly as I passed, recognizing me not with image, but with essence.At the garden’s edge, where the boundary between known and not-yet became thin as hush, a gate had appeared.It was not made of wood or metal or vine. It was made of waiting.And beside it sat a creature I had only seen in half-dreams: eyes like clouded glass, fur woven from fragments of twilight. It looked at me the way forgotten songs do—familiar, yet distant, carrying an ache too soft to hurt.“You’ve reached the edge,” it said, though its mouth never moved.“Of what?” I asked, already knowing.“Of what you thought you came for.”The gate opened not with sound, but with invitation.I stepped through.Beyond the garden, the lan

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

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