On the day Emily was buried, her child appeared in my studio in the afternoon.
“Mom said that if she’s gone, I should come find you. You know my mom, right?”
Those clear eyes were exactly like Emily’s and they hurt my eyes to look at.
But just as I was about to coldly push him away, my eyes fell on the small birthmark behind his ear—a red heart, in the exact same spot as my son, born ten years ago and gone after only three days.
A thought so absurd that it made me tremble ran through my mind.
My vision blurred and I gripped the door frame to steady myself.
“W-what’s your name?”
——
“Arson Grant.”
The child’s voice was soft, carrying a faint, almost hidden fear.
Grand.
The same “Grant” as Harry Grant.
The scar on my chest, long since healed, felt torn open again, as if bleeding fresh.
Ten years ago, I, Millie Summers, was the legitimate daughter of the Grant Family.
Emily was my husband's first love, the one he had always secretly cherished.
My son was born, but just three days later, the doctor declared him dead from a sudden infection.
That day, my husband, Harry, wasn’t even by my side.
It was his mother, Linda Quinn, who coldly handled everything.
She didn’t even let me see my child one last time, saying she was afraid I would be too heartbroken.
Not long after, exhausted in body and mind, I signed the divorce papers, letting Harry be with his first love.
I always thought it was Emily’s existence that indirectly caused my child’s death and she ruined everything I had.
That’s why I hated her.
But now, her “son,” with the same birthmark as my own child, appeared in front of me.
At that moment, my hatred was drowned in a mix of absurdity and fear.
I turned to the side, my voice hoarse. “Come in.”
The studio was a mess, with paints and brushes scattered all over the floor.
In these ten years, I had lived like a lonely island.
Arson was very quiet in a way that didn’t seem like a child.
He carried a small, faded backpack and stood nervously at the doorway, not daring to step inside.
“Sit.” I pointed to the only clean sofa.
He shuffled over in small steps and sat down, gripping the straps of his backpack tightly.
I suppressed the storm inside me and stared hard at the red birthmark behind his ear.
It was too much like my own child.
No—it was exactly the same.
Even in the exact same position.
“How did your mother… die?” I lit a cigarette, but my hands were shaking badly.
Arson looked at me, a bit confused, as if he was trying to understand my question.
He was slow to respond and after a few seconds he whispered, “Mom… fell asleep. The police said Mom fell asleep while driving.”
A car accident.
I took a deep drag of my cigarette, but the harsh smoke made me cough.
Arson jumped at the sound, shrinking back.
The scared, startled look on his face stabbed my heart in a way I couldn’t explain.
“How old are you, kid?”
He thought for a moment. “Nine… almost ten.”
The timing matched.
My heart felt as if an invisible hand was squeezing it, making it hard to breathe.
“Where’s your dad? Why didn’t he come to pick you up?”
At the mention of his father, Arson’s eyes darkened and his head dropped even lower.
“Dad… is very busy.”
The same excuse.
Exactly like Harry ten years ago.
