Chapter 514 Confession of the Leaf
A single tear slipped down Seraphine's rosy cheek, and Emma quickly wiped it away.
Seraphine seemed to sense something, smiling sweetly in her sleep, her dimples showing.
Emma leaned down and kissed each child's forehead.
Lucas' small hand suddenly grabbed her finger tightly, as if he couldn't bear to let his mom go even in his dreams.
"Don't worry, we'll never be apart," she whispered softly into her son's ear. "I love you both more than anything."
Sophia quietly closed the door, leaving Emma alone with her children.
Emma sat by the bed, watching her two little angels breathe evenly, her heart filled with a mix of sadness and warmth.
No matter how far she went, these two little hearts would always be closely connected to hers.
Back in her own room, Emma began packing her suitcase.
As she reached into the depths of a drawer to retrieve her passport, a dried leaf silently fluttered down.
She bent down to pick it up, recognizing it as the leaf George had given her on the island.
Her fingertip accidentally brushed the stem, and the unusual texture made her pause.
Under the light of the desk lamp, she squinted to examine it closely, discovering faint, almost imperceptible writing on the stem.
She trembled as she took out a magnifying glass and deciphered the words: [Emma, I love you.]
Her heart suddenly pounded violently, and Emma collapsed onto the bed.
She had kept this leaf for so long without ever discovering its secret.
Memories flooded back, recalling George's hesitant expression when he handed her the leaf, the tremor in his fingers when they touched.
She abruptly stood up and opened her long-unused laptop.
As the login screen appeared, her fingers uncontrollably clicked on the long-forgotten email account. The inbox was filled with hundreds of unread emails, all from George.
The earliest one was dated three years ago, the day she left Lakeside Haven. She opened the email, and George's words pierced her heart like a knife.
[Emma, I may have lost you forever. I regret not realizing my true feelings sooner, regret hurting you with my coldness.]
Emma covered her mouth, tears blurring her vision.
She trembled as she opened the next email, dated three days after the news of her faked death.
[I don't believe you just left like that. If you can see this letter, please give me a chance to make amends. The children need their mother, and I need you.]
The email attachment was a photo of George holding a sleeping Lucas, both of their eyes red and swollen. The calendar in the corner of the photo showed it was the seventh day after her "funeral."
[Today Lucas asked me if his mom had turned into a star. I told him that his mom had just gone far away but would definitely come back. Emma, if you're really somewhere out there, please give me a chance to make things right.]
Email after email unfolded George's inner world like a time machine: how he raised the children alone, how he wrote these confessions in sleepless nights, how he took the kids to her "grave" on every anniversary.
The latest email was sent two days ago: [Only by truly falling into darkness can one understand its terror. In the future, darkness will always be with me because my light has disappeared.]
Emma was already sobbing uncontrollably.
At five in the morning, just as the sky began to lighten, Emma was awakened by a gentle knock on the door.
She rubbed her sleepy eyes and opened the door to find Sophia standing outside, still carrying the dampness of the morning dew.
"Mom? You're up so early?"
Sophia didn't answer, instead gently taking Emma's hand and slipping a warm object onto her wrist.
Emma looked down to see a bracelet with a gemstone cross, glowing softly in the morning light.
"This is..." she touched the intricate daffodil carvings on the cross, each petal meticulously crafted.
Sophia's fingers trembled slightly, her voice so soft it seemed afraid to disturb the moment's tranquility.
"I went to the church overnight." Her eyes had dark circles, clearly showing she hadn't slept, "The bishop said this is the last blessed gemstone cross."
Emma then noticed her mother was still wearing last night's clothes. She could almost see Sophia driving alone through the pre-dawn darkness to the church.
"The daffodil was carved by the church's sculptor himself." Sophia carefully turned the cross to show Emma every detail, her fingers lingering on the daffodil carvings, her voice choked, "Strong and pure, just like my Emma."
The morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the cross.
Emma turned the cross and suddenly noticed two lines of small text engraved on it: [Follow your heart, peace and joy.]
She recognized the handwriting immediately; it was her father Henry's.
She could imagine her father painstakingly engraving those words under the lamp.
The gemstone was hard, and she wondered how long it took him to carve such deep sentiments.
The cross suddenly felt hot, and Emma's vision blurred. She could almost see her mother praying devoutly in the church, her father focused on engraving under the lamp.
This gemstone had passed through so many hands: the miner who painstakingly collected it, the sculptor who worked tirelessly to carve the patterns, the bishop who prayed and sprinkled holy water, and finally her parents' warm palms.
She pressed the cross against her cheek, feeling a hint of warmth seep through the coolness.
Sophia suddenly grasped Emma's hand, "This gemstone cross will change color with the wearer's emotions." Her thumb gently rubbed the cross.
The cross bracelet swayed lightly on her wrist, emitting a clear sound. And in her hand, the dried maple leaf quietly revealed a missed truth.
Emma hugged herself tightly, feeling the world spinning around her.
Outside, the first ray of sunlight pierced through the clouds.
Today was the day Emma would return to Sunterra.
The airport's massive glass walls reflected the four figures clearly, yet with a slight distortion.
Michael pushed a cart piled high with luggage at the front, Seraphine sat obediently on the largest suitcase, her little legs swinging gently with the cart's movement, humming an off-key nursery rhyme.
Lucas, however, clung tightly to Emma's coat, his small fingers turning even paler, his eyes—so much like George's—watching Michael's back warily, as if guarding against something.
"Mom," Lucas suddenly looked up, his little face scrunched in a tight frown, "Why is Seraphine's dad my granduncle?"
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