As Vivienne was setting up the table, the door opened. A handsome man with dark red hair entered. Though his footsteps were shallow, his face was shrunken and pale.
Vivienne, leaving the silver spoon as it was, rushed to him, supporting him by his arm.
"I'm fine."
Even his voice sounded weak; her chest tightened.
It had been nearly a year since the illness took hold; it was as if the ghost of his late wife had finally caught up to him, haunting his every step.
His legs trembled as he lowered himself into the chair.
"Not a single one today, either?"
Glaring at her husband, wearing a worried look, Vivienne let out a tired sigh as she shook her head.
"It's as if they don't even live here anymore," Edmund muttered.
It was lunchtime. And Vivienne herself had cooked the meal like she always did. But instead of looking at it, Edward's eyes were staring at the empty chair.
"If only I had let her do what she wanted," a flash of regret crossed his dull eyes.
