Unveiled: The Survivor's Triumph

After that day, Arthur called me nonstop. I got so fed up, I just turned off my phone.

A week later, a colleague from the hospital showed up at my door with devastating news: my mom had died.

I bolted out of the house, running toward the hospital. I hadn't gone far when a car screeched to a stop in front of me. It was Ethan. He drove me to the hospital.

The doctor said my mom passed away at 6 AM. Her condition had worsened the night before, but they couldn't reach me. In the morning, my colleagues tracked down Arthur and got my address.

In the morgue, I could barely stand, staring at the white sheet on the gurney. My world felt drained of color, just black and white.

Doctors and nurses who knew me stood at the door, not daring to come in.

A strong hand turned me around and held me up. Ethan didn't say a word, but his embrace was firm.

On the day of my mom's burial, I sat in front of the tombstone for hours. It was pouring rain, and Ethan stood behind me, holding an umbrella.

"Your body can't take this," Ethan said, his voice muffled by the rain.

I didn't respond. I knew getting sick wouldn't bring my mom back.

As it got darker and the rain got heavier, Ethan picked me up. My face pressed against his chest, and I realized he was soaked.

He put me in the passenger seat and buckled my seatbelt. Ethan drove in silence. I clutched a blanket the whole way.

"I want to go home," I said, my voice hoarse from not speaking.

Ethan turned the wheel with one hand, took a cigarette from his pocket, sniffed it, and put it back.

When we reached Broadway Alley, the rain was pouring even harder. We had left the umbrella at the cemetery, so we stayed in the car for a while. Through the rain-soaked window, I stared into Broadway Alley. The scene triggered old memories.

Back then, life wasn't rich, but it was happy. That time was short, but it left me with my deepest memory.

Noticing I was shivering more, Ethan unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over, holding me tightly.

Feeling his warmth, I broke down and cried in his arms.

He held me tighter, unbuckling my seatbelt and gently patting my back. He didn't say a word, but it was more comforting than anything. When my sobbing slowed and the rain eased up, Ethan got out, opened the passenger door, and directly carried me into Broadway Alley.

Broadway Alley was quiet at night. The sound of Ethan's shoes splashing in puddles was clear in the silence.

My wet clothes clung to me, and the cold wind made me shiver. Sensing this, he held me tighter.

"Emily, people aren't lucky forever, nor are they unlucky forever. When life hits rock bottom, it means good things are coming." Ethan carried me up the rundown stairs, his voice steady, unfazed by the weight.