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We grew up on a military compound. My dad and hers were both soldiers.
My mom was a war correspondent; hers was an army medic.
We came of age amidst conflict and turmoil. From a young age, I was determined to become a journalist uncovering the truth, just like my mother.
Nora, on the other hand, dreamed of becoming a doctor to heal the sick.
Later, we got accepted into the same university. I chose Journalism; she chose Medicine.
On graduation day, clutching our diplomas, we got thoroughly drunk.
I hugged her and asked, "If you ever faced a choice between a patient and me, what would you do?"
She thought for a moment and said, "Save the patient first. If you died... I'd die with you."
I always thought she was joking. But later, I learned she meant it.
In the end... we both died in the worlds we had chosen to fight for.
After that, my husband became a man possessed. He locked himself away, refusing to eat or drink.
He pored over the footage frame by frame, organizing every scrap of information.
Finally, he uncovered the killer's trail.
He volunteered to lead the investigation and capture.
Months later, the officer heading the case died during the apprehension attempt.
My husband vanished without a trace.
Everyone feared the worst.
Half a year later, he was found in an abandoned factory.
There wasn't a single part of his body left unscathed.
On the way to the hospital, he clutched the evidence he'd secured until backup arrived.
Only then did he hand over what he'd fought so desperately to obtain.
The doctor in charge told them, "You need to prepare for the worst."
"While he survived, his mind and body are shattered. Severe PTSD with complications. Patients like this... they only have two paths forward."
"What paths?" someone asked.
"Either they develop hallucinations and hurt those around them... or they turn the pain inward. The ultimate outcome is always... death."
A collective gasp filled the room, grief palpable for the young captain.
No one knew what he had endured those six months.
Only occasionally, in his troubled sleep, he'd plead: "Please... don't hurt her."
I drifted silently outside the hospital window, looking in at Michael.
He seemed to sense something, his gaze searching the empty air.
"Anna... is that you? Have you come for me?"
I spoke a single sentence to him: "Live well... That's your punishment."
And so he did. He lived well until he was fifty.
By then, his illness had reached its critical stage. Reality blurred for him.
He'd just stand by the window sometimes, staring into the distance, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Anna... I think... I can't hold on much longer. Does this mean... I can finally come find you?"
David's Perspective:
After learning of Nora's death, David resigned from his position as Medical Examiner.
He didn't go far. He just went home.
Then he took Chloe with him.
David confronted her: "Why did you delete my messages? She reached out to me, didn't she?"
Chloe, oblivious to the storm she'd helped unleash, cried pitifully.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about."
"David, you're scaring me."
David let out a cold laugh. "Can't figure it out? Then take your time."
Chloe didn't realize the David who lost Nora was a different man – a man broken, a man planned. A man with nothing left to lose.
When the police found Chloe, a year and five months had passed.
She looked like she'd been flayed alive, covered in dozens of wounds.
Non-lethal knife wounds, precisely placed. On the day David turned himself in,
He watched dispassionately as Chloe was committed to a psychiatric facility.
Everyone said he was insane. He just offered a faint smile. "Yes... I lost my mind long ago."
The day he learned Nora was dead, he stopped wanting to live.
He stayed only long enough to ensure those whose actions had indirectly led to her death paid a price.
"I accept any punishment," he stated calmly. "But I request to see one person."
Someone asked him who.
David's eyes filled with unwavering devotion: "My wife."
