They didn’t stay at the hospital a minute longer.
That sa night, Charles carried Janet back to the place that once ant ho.
It had been so long, yet the scent in the air was still familiar.
Even though she couldn’t see a thing, Janet smiled faintly.
This was still their house.
But the ho she rembered—warm, vivid, full of life—was gone.
Now it was silent.
Empty.
All the furniture was gone.
Even the grand living room, hundreds of square ters wide, was bare save for a single soft rug.
It was like soone had swept away all mories—except the ones that hurt.
Janet couldn’t see any of it.
But Charles never told her.
If she couldn’t be her own eyes anymore, then he’d be them for her.
When he tried to carry her upstairs, she stopped him.
"I can walk," she insisted.
He hesitated, but in the end, respected her choice.
She had learned to navigate the darkness.
Every hesitant step, every tremble of her hand—it all spoke of the days she’d suffered alone, groping through a world without light.
"Ten steps forward," he said gently, walking just behind her.
"There’s a staircase. Take it slow."
His voice was steady, guiding her like a father guiding his child.
"One step at a ti—sixteen in total. Keep your hand on the railing. That’s it..."
And she made it.
Step by step, breath by breath—she reached the second floor on her own.
She hadn’t needed help before. She didn’t ask for it now.
But what she wouldn’t admit—what made her heart ache most—was that she couldn’t see him anymore.
Not even once.
Now, even the intimacy of bathing had beco a necessity.
Charles did it all for her.
When she refused, he simply picked her up and said,
"The floor’s slippery. I’m not letting you fall."
He lowered her gently into the bath, steam rising around them, clouding the mirror and hiding the tears in her lashes.
His fingers were careful as they removed her clothes, revealing her porcelain skin—so familiar, yet so distant now.
Desire no longer held sway in his heart.
Only reverence.
Only guilt.
She sat there quietly, letting him touch her, wash her, guide her.
It had beco a routine—this quiet closeness.
Not passion.
Just love in its rawest, most desperate form.
After her release from the hospital, Charles never returned to Black Rock Co.
He moved his entire office ho, repurposing the study into a remote command center.
Janet didn’t protest.
He was always behind the scenes anyway.
And now, he refused to be anywhere but by her side.
Each morning, he would kiss her forehead and whisper a gentle "good morning."
But her sleep was growing longer, heavier.
It terrified him.
He worked through video calls and endless ssages.
Giles ca by to relay urgent matters.
But no matter how busy he was—he never forgot to wake her for als, to sit beside her and describe the world she could no longer see.
He’d take her for short walks.
She’d listen to his voice narrate everything he saw, a quiet smile tugging at her lips.
But her eyes—
Her eyes were vacant.
So heartbreakingly distant.
At night, they lay together.
She in his arms.
He in silent anguish.
She took her dication obediently, but the toll on her body was obvious.
The involuntary spasms, the faint cries in her sleep, the painful frown etched deep into her brow—
He hated himself for letting it get this far.
If only he had fought harder at the start—
If only he had never hesitated—
Would she still be suffering like this?
But every ti he felt her rounded belly beneath his hand, his heart softened.
Their child was growing.
That life inside her was a miracle.
He’d cup her waist, palm resting gently against the curve of her abdon, and whisper softly to the unborn child:
"Hang in there... You both have to hang in there..."
But ti wasn’t kind.
Janet’s condition worsened.
The symptoms the doctor had warned him about—
They were surfacing one by one.
She wasn’t just blind anymore.
Her personality was changing.
She who once never raised her voice... now flared up without warning.
Anger.
Confusion.
Monts of terrifying forgetfulness.
And in the worst of monts—
She hurt herself.
When there was nothing in the room to throw, she’d turn her fury inward.
Nails against skin.
Fists against walls.
Even though she knew it was wrong, her mind... couldn’t stop.
Charles moved his office next to their bedroom.
Most nights, he wouldn’t leave until she was asleep.
So nights... he didn’t sleep at all.
He would just sit in the dark, staring at nothing, wondering—
Will she even make it to the day our child is born?
Then ca the scream.
Piercing.
Raw.
Agonizing.
He bolted into the room.
And there she was—
Janet.
Clutching her head, her fingers tangling violently in her hair, her whole body convulsing in a storm of despair.
"Make it stop! Make it stop!!" she scread.
Her voice echoed through the cold villa like a ghost’s wail—shattering, echoing, damning.
Charles froze for a second.
Then he ran.
Ran to her.
Because if he didn’t hold her now—
He was afraid she’d vanish into the dark forever.
"Ahhhhhhh—!! I can’t take it anymore! It hurts!"
Janet’s scream pierced the silence of the night.
Like a curse cast upon her skull, waves of agony pulsed through her brain—sharp, relentless, unbearable.
She dug her fingers into her scalp, tugging at her once-beautiful hair as if yanking it out could sohow ease the tornt.
Strands fell in clumps, scattered like withered petals over the bedsheets.
"Janet! No—stop! Don’t hurt yourself!"
Charles rushed to her side, grabbing her trembling hands and pinning them down.
Her hair stuck to her damp cheeks, tangled and matted with tears.
Her pale neck was streaked with sweat.
Her entire body looked like a broken doll’s—fragile, lifeless.
She was screaming in pain, and yet—
He couldn’t do a damn thing to make it stop.
Not the painkillers.
Not the doctors.
Not even him.
"Charles... It hurts," she whimpered through gritted teeth.
"It hurts so much..."
He pressed his forehead against hers, his voice shaking with helplessness.
"I know, baby, I know... But you’re going to be okay. It’ll pass. Just hold on for —bite if it hurts too much."
If she had to suffer, then let him suffer too.
Let him bleed.
Let her pain be his, just for a mont.
He brought her hand to his mouth—
But she was faster.
With wild, unfocused eyes, Janet bit down on his wrist—hard.
She bit through skin.
Through flesh.
Charles didn’t flinch.
Didn’t cry out.
Didn’t even blink.
He just held her close, whispering gentle words, even as warm blood trickled down his arm.
And when the tallic taste overwheld her, she started gagging—
Dry retches that wracked her already weakened body.
She clutched her stomach, trembling uncontrollably.
Charles swallowed hard.
This wasn’t a pregnancy symptom.
This was the illness.
Worsening.
Spreading.
"Tell what to do..." he begged, cradling her tighter.
"Tell how I can help you. Please—just tell ..."
But she couldn’t answer.
She was too far gone.
So, in the middle of her breakdown, with her struggling in his arms—
He kissed her.
A desperate, broken kiss.
He tasted salt and blood, pain and longing.
He kissed her like it was the only thing tethering her to this world.
His lips trembled against hers, his whisper barely audible:
"Let hurt with you... Please..."
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