Chapter 589 The Identity of the Tomb's Occupant
Before Martin had a chance to respond, Patricia's gaze swept over him in a sudden, scrutinizing manner. Her right index finger extended, gently brushing aside his bangs to reveal his smooth forehead and deep-set eyes.
"You still look handsome," Patricia said.
Rising from her seat, Patricia guided him towards the bathroom with a gentle nudge. "I'll give you a haircut, then you can shower and change into clean clothes," she proposed.
Martin's eyes widened in surprise. "You know how to cut hair?"
Patricia responded with a hint of pride, "Don't underestimate me. I've cut Charles and Fannie's hair before. Cutting hair isn't a difficult task, and I dare say my skills surpass those of professional stylists."
As Patricia ushered Martin onto the chair, he closed his eyes in resignation. "Alright, as long as you forgive me, I'm willing to let you shave my head bald."
Patricia's lips pursed into a thin line, and she hummed in mock annoyance. "You think I'll forgive you just because you let me shave your head bald!" As she spoke, she draped a cloth around Martin's shoulders, spritzed his hair with water, and began to skillfully snip away.
Martin watched Patricia's focused expression in the mirror, a warmth spreading through his eyes. Since the day he was resurrected, he hadn't anticipated a moment like this. Yet, he couldn't shake off the uncertainty of how long this fleeting happiness would endure. His gaze involuntarily darkened. Would his departure inflict even more pain on Patricia and their children? The situation seemed to be veering further from his expectations, gradually slipping from his grasp.
Patricia, noticing his shift in mood, felt a twinge of sorrow. Her eyes welled up with tears, but she fought them back. Her hair-cutting skills, as it turned out, were indeed commendable. In no time, she had finished styling Martin's hair. Patricia then fetched a set of his old bathrobes and placed them in the bathroom.
"I'll leave first. If you need anything, I'll be outside," she said, her gaze lowered as she exited the room.
Martin turned on the shower and stood beneath it, listening to the rush of water and watching the steam rise. He couldn't resist reaching out a hand, letting the warm water flow through his fingers. A strange sensation washed over him. He had never thought he would return.
After leaving the bathroom, Patricia made her way to the walk-in closet. She opened it and scanned Martin's row of neatly hung clothes, eventually selecting his summer loungewear, a staple in his at-home attire. Despite believing Martin to be dead, she couldn't bring herself to discard any of his belongings. When they moved from their previous home to the Ellenstein Villa District, she had brought all of Martin's possessions with her.
Having found the clothes, Patricia sat on the bed, waiting for Martin. Time passed slowly, each minute seeming to stretch on endlessly. The sound of running water from the bathroom was her only company, but it brought a genuine, joyful smile to her face - her first in a long while. Even though she didn't know how long this happiness would last, she was simply glad that Martin was alive.
After an indeterminable amount of time, the bathroom door finally opened. Martin emerged, clad in a bathrobe. Unlike his usual loose attire, the robe was worn tightly, as if he was reluctant to reveal any hint of the muscles beneath. His freshly cut hair was still damp, the soft strands falling over his eyebrows. His deep-set eyes were half-closed, giving him a more relaxed and casual look than usual.
Patricia looked at his face, her heart filled with fear that this was all a dream, and that she would wake up to the harsh reality of his absence. Martin, noticing her apprehension, couldn't help but tease, "What's wrong? Are you mesmerized by my handsome appearance?"
Patricia shot him a glance and patted the spot next to her, signaling for Martin to sit. He complied obediently. Patricia took the dry towel from his hand and knelt behind him, skillfully drying his hair. As she worked, she softly chastised him.
"Why didn't you dry your hair before coming out? Do you think you're still as resilient as before? You're more fragile now than a newborn, and you still need to be taken care of."
Martin responded with a laugh, which quickly turned into a fit of coughing.
Fearful of disturbing the slumber of the two children, he hastily clamped a hand over his mouth, straining to suppress the volume of his voice.
This time, his coughing fit seemed to stretch on endlessly.
It persisted until his complexion faded to a ghostly pallor, only then did it gradually subside.
A pang of acute pain lanced through Patricia's heart, causing her eyes to brim with unshed tears.
Despite the agony that wracked her, she remained stoically silent.
Sometimes, silence offered the most profound solace.
Once his coughing had ceased, Patricia resumed her gentle combing of his hair.
"Now, can you tell me? Why did Carter claim you were dead? And why was a tombstone erected in your memory? What transpired? If you're not dead, then whose ashes did I bring back?" she queried.
Unbeknownst to Martin, her questions transported his mind back to the events of several months prior.
"The ashes are not mine, merely my clothing and flour," he responded.
A few months ago, he and Carter had been ambushed. Despite their severe injuries, they had managed to escape.
With their bodies battered and bruised, they relentlessly sought information until they finally discovered Declan's location.
He and Carter rushed to their destination.
As anticipated, upon pushing open the door of the house, they found a child lying in the cramped room, crying hoarsely.
Even though he had never laid eyes on the child before, he instantly recognized it as his own.
The child bore a striking resemblance to Patricia.
He firmly believed in the bond of blood relations.
Due to prolonged malnutrition, the child had become emaciated, its frame significantly smaller than other babies of the same age.
When he attempted to depart, cradling the child he had finally found, they were ambushed yet again.
To safeguard the child and not encumber Carter, he thrust the child into Carter's arms, instructing him to flee with the child.
Naturally, Carter resisted, adamant about staying by his side.
In that moment of hesitation, he was brutally attacked.
Ultimately, for Declan's sake, Carter departed with the child in his arms.
He was left behind, sprawled on the ground, his body riddled with severe injuries.
In the moments before he lost consciousness, he caught sight of a familiar face.
Charlotte.
His sister, Charlotte.
It dawned on him that Charlotte had masterminded the entire ordeal.
He could never have fathomed that his sister would stoop so low as to kidnap his child and then conspire to murder him.
Perhaps fate had other plans for him. Charlotte had ordered her men to bury him, but their laziness had led them to discard him into the river instead, inadvertently saving his life.
Although he had survived, his injuries were severe.
The doctor had grimly informed him that he had a maximum of one month left to live.
This devastating revelation hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he struggled to come to terms with it. He was consumed by despair.
He was all too familiar with the torment of watching loved ones wither away, the anguish of losing them, and the helplessness and regret of being unable to save them.
He didn't want Patricia and the children to bear witness to his slow demise.
So, he made a decision.
He asked Carter to return the children home and inform them of his supposed death.
Aware that Patricia would be devastated, he asked Carter to relay a message for her to carry on living and to look after the children.
But he hadn't anticipated that Patricia would attempt to take her own life because of him.
He had just started to come to terms with his one-month life expectancy.
Now, he was filled with deep remorse for the decision he had made back then.
He had inflicted pain on everyone.
In reality, he had been in constant contact with Carter, who had arranged for him to assume the identity of James.
As Patricia listened to Martin's account, tears streamed down her face, soaking his bathrobe.
Suddenly, an image of him, his body marred with scars, flashed in her mind. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and untied his bathrobe—
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