Summer also saw him.

Her gaze stayed on him for a moment—very calm, as calm as if she were looking at a stone blocking the path or an insignificant tree. Then, she shifted her gaze away, as if he didn't exist at all.

Caleb didn't even give him a single glance, focusing entirely on the path beneath Summer's feet.

"Summer..."

Just as Summer was about to brush past him, he finally found his voice, which was as raspy as an old bellows. Trembling, he raised his right hand, which was wrapped in thick bandages—there, a section of his pinky finger was missing.

"Summer..." He looked at her, his gaze humble, carrying the desperate prayer of a dying man grasping at a final straw. "I was wrong... I truly know I was wrong..."

"Skylar is dead... Mom is crazy... Dad won't acknowledge me..."

"I have nothing left... I only have you..."

"Summer... look at me... look at your brother, please..."

He spoke incoherently, tears and snot flowing, no longer caring for any image or dignity, just a pathetic creature struggling in a dark abyss of despair.

Summer’s footsteps finally stopped.

She slowly turned around, lowered her eyes, and looked at the kneeling, wretched man on the ground.

The faint morning light fell on her pale face, gilding her with a faint golden halo, yet making her gaze appear even more indifferent and distant.

"Mr. Sterling," she spoke, her voice light yet clearly penetrating the morning mist into his ears, cold and without a trace of warmth. "Your sister is dead, so you remember me?"

The older brother shuddered as if stabbed by those words.

Summer seemed to remember something, tilting her head slightly as if recalling a very distant event that had nothing to do with her.

"But I remember," she continued, her tone still flat. "When I was in prison with a fever of 40 degrees and was semi-conscious, the guard called you, saying I was dying and asked for a family member to come, or... at least to send some medicine."

She paused, her gaze falling on his suddenly ashen face, the corners of her mouth curling into an extremely faint, cold arc.

"On the phone, you said, 'Just let her die in there.'"

"Mr. Sterling, you were the one who said those words, weren't you?"

Every word was like a blade dipped in ice, stabbing hard into his heart and then twisting, bloodily digging out the ugliness and cruelty he tried to bury and forget, laying them bare in the light of day.

The color drained completely from his face, and even his lips trembled.

He wanted to deny it, to explain, to say they were words of anger or a misunderstanding... but he couldn't speak.

Because he had indeed said them. After Skylar’s condition "worsened again because of Summer's behavior," he had spoken those heartless words in a fit of rage and bias.

"Yes..." He gave a tragic laugh that looked worse than crying, filled with endless self-loathing and despair. "I deserve to die... Summer... I deserve to die..."

Summer nodded, as if agreeing with his self-assessment.

"You indeed deserve to die."

Her voice still held no ups or downs, as if stating an objective fact.

"But whether you live or die," she looked at him, her gaze like looking at dust on the roadside, "has nothing to do with me."

Having said that, she stopped looking at him, turned, and said softly to Caleb: "Let's go, Caleb. I'm a bit cold."

Caleb immediately tucked her shawl tighter and replied softly, "Okay."

The two walked on together, without a hint of hesitation.

"Summer!" Watching her back, a massive panic seized him.

He knew that this time, if he let her go, he would truly never see her again, truly lose her forever.

He found strength from somewhere and lunged forward on his knees, trying to grab the corner of her clothes.

"Summer! You used to... you used to call me 'Brother' for twenty years! We were siblings for twenty years!"

His shouting carried a sob, echoing on the empty morning forest road, shrill and desperate.

Summer’s footsteps did not pause for a second this time.

Only her calm voice drifted over with the wind, drilling clearly into his ears and completely shattering his last bit of illusion.

"Those twenty years were stolen by me."

"Now, I have returned them to your family."

"We are even."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Her figure, accompanied by Caleb, slowly disappeared at the end of the manor path.

The morning mist gradually dispersed and sunlight fell, yet it could not light up the bone-chilling darkness surrounding the older brother.

He maintained the posture of reaching out, frozen in place, looking at the re-closed, cold and magnificent iron gate, looking in the direction Summer had disappeared, for a long, long time.

Then, he suddenly bent over, his forehead pressing hard against the cold, damp ground, letting out an agonized howl like a dying beast, suppressed to the extreme.

Stolen...

Returned...

Even...

It turned out that in her heart, those twenty years of living together, twenty years of sibling affection, were a mistake from the very beginning—a theft she shouldn't have committed.

And he, along with the entire family, was the executioner who inflicted torture upon her in that mistake.

He didn't even have the qualification to be hated anymore.

Since that morning outside the manor when they were "even," Summer’s life seemed to truly enter a slow and steady track.

Those noisy, bloody, and unsightly past events were separated by the crisp air and white snow of the Alps, becoming blurred noise in a distant background.

Her hand recovery training entered a new stage.

Under the meticulous care of a top medical team and Caleb’s daily companionship and encouragement, her stiff joints began to have a greater range of motion. Although the deformed knuckles could not be restored to their original state, at least they were no longer completely uncontrollable "disabilities."

Caleb somehow acquired a Steinway grand piano and placed it in the glass conservatory with the best sunlight.

The body of the piano was polished to a shine, and the black and white keys sat silently, waiting to be touched.

"There's no rush, we can take it slowly." Caleb always said this, his voice possessing a strange soothing power. "Start with the simplest things, even if just a touch to feel it."

Summer initially just watched from afar, her gaze complex.

That piano was like a symbol—a symbol of the dreams that were once within reach but now seemingly unattainable, and a symbol of a future she wasn't sure she had the courage to open.

Until one afternoon, when sunlight filtered through the glass dome, falling on the polished piano lid and reflecting a warm glow.

Caleb didn't rush her; he just sat at the piano and casually played an extremely simple, even somewhat clumsy melody—a variation of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

His fingers were long, and as they fell on the keys, notes skipped out. Though unrefined, they unexpectedly carried a peaceful tenderness.

Summer stood at the conservatory door, listening quietly.

That simple melody was like a feather, gently brushing against a long-sealed corner of her heart.

She walked over slowly and stopped beside Caleb.

Caleb stopped playing and looked up at her, his gaze gentle and encouraging, without the slightest coercion.

Summer stared at the distinct black and white keys for a long time. Then, she stretched out her right hand—still wrapped in some bandages, the knuckles slightly distorted—hovering it over the keys, trembling slightly.

"Try?" Caleb asked softly.

Summer didn't answer, merely pursed her lips, and then, very, very slowly, pressed down with her index finger.

"Do—"

A somewhat dull note, not exactly pleasant, sounded in the quiet conservatory.

Summer’s finger flinched back as if burned.

Caleb didn't move, just watched her quietly.

Summer took a deep breath and reached out again.

This time, she tried using her index and middle fingers, alternating, extremely slowly and clumsily pressing down several adjacent keys.

The notes were intermittent, not forming a tune, and even a bit jarring.

Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, her fingers trembling slightly from the effort, and her originally pale cheeks flushed with a very faint pink from concentration and a trace of undetectable excitement.

But she didn't stop.

Just like that, relying on the simplest fingering in her memory, note by note, stumbling and faltering, she tried to piece together the melody of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

When she made a mistake, she stopped, frowned, and tried again.

When her fingers were stiff and wouldn't obey, she moved them a bit and then continued.

The sunlight moved slowly, casting warm spots of light on her.

Her profile looked soft and focused in the glow, her long lashes cast down, throwing a small shadow on her eyelids.

Caleb always sat quietly by her side, his gaze tenderly falling on her, without urging or guidance, only companionship.

After an unknown amount of time, a section of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star"—extremely simple, not even smooth, and with occasional wrong notes—drifted out from her fingertips.