Chapter 3

I didn't take the park's shuttle bus.

Instead, I took the local transfer bus down the mountain alone.

A thin layer of snow covered the streets of Pine Creek Town.

Following my phone's GPS, I found a storefront.

The sign above the door read: Hospice Support Center.

This wasn't a hospital.

It was a place where local community organizations lent medical equipment to seriously ill tourists and seniors.

Pushing open the door, the room was pleasantly warm.

The volunteer, a girl with glasses, approached me.

"Hi, what can I help you with?"

She handed me a registration form.

"I'd like to borrow a portable oxygen concentrator."

I gave her my ID card.

"And a pressure relief cushion, please."

The girl looked at my face, then at the faint outline around my waist.

She didn't ask any questions, just efficiently processed my request.

"Please fill in the emergency contact section."

She pointed to a blank line at the bottom of the form.

I held the pen, my hand pausing for a long time.

A scene from the day of my divorce three years ago flashed in my mind.

That day, I accompanied my mother for a follow-up gastroscopy.

Outside the glass window of the pediatric clinic, I saw Chloe.

She was skillfully filling out her child's birth information.

In the father's column, Ethan Miller's name was written.

The child's birth date perfectly aligned with the first year of my marriage with Ethan.

I stood in the corridor, holding my mother's gastroscopy report.

It felt like my life had been simultaneously condemned by two pieces of paper.

Later, I confronted Ethan.

He didn't deny it.

"I was under too much pressure back then, and Chloe and I had a few drinks."

He sat on the couch, his voice terrifyingly rational.

"Then she got pregnant, and I couldn't just let her handle it alone."

I asked him, what about me?

He was silent for a long time, then said something that disgusted me to this day.

"Rory, you've always been strong."

He took my understanding nature for granted, using it as a reason to sacrifice me.

He even offered me compensation.

A house, shares, savings—anything, as long as I agreed to divorce.

He thought money could solve betrayal.

I pulled my thoughts back, and wrote a single word on the form: None.

The volunteer looked at the word, frowning slightly.

"If you're traveling to the mountains alone, it's best to have someone who can be reached."

She reminded me softly.

I smiled, placing the pen back on the table.

After leaving the aid station, I went to the pharmacy in town.

"I'm really sorry, the specific model of ostomy baseplate you usually use is out of stock."

The store assistant, Sarah, searched through the shelves, apologizing to me.

"We only have this generic type; the adhesive might not be as strong."

"That's fine, I'll take two."

I paid the money.

Reality is always like this; even being sick doesn't allow you to have things your own way.

The small hotel room was quiet at night.

I sat at the small table, spreading out my medication boxes.

Only six painkillers were left.

Outside the window, the snow was falling even harder.

I looked at my blurred reflection on the glass.

Hairless, gaunt.

I set a time for myself.

Before sunrise tomorrow.

To reach the birch forest beyond the closed trail.

There would be no tourists there.

And no one would see my pathetic state.