never been able to offer.
Maybe little Felicity had died that summer, back then, without me realizing it.
When Felix found me after a frantic search, my body had already begun to decompose.
He buried me next to my parents, and beside us, there was an empty grave.
That day, he set fire to the Palmers‘ residence, killing Hugo, the famous business mogul, and himself.
Felix never loved Hugo. If it weren’t for the kidnapping and brutal death of Hugo’s legitimate child, Felix would’ve never stepped foot in that house.
Later, my final portrait of Felix was framed on the headstone next to my grave. He lay beside me, just like in that family photo, finally whole.
The cemetery was filled with sunflowers, always following the sun, their golden faces shining.
My parents had used to laugh and joke, “It’s like we’ve got a son now.” Even when they about to be murdered, they had still shouted, “Felix, take Felicity with you!
This time, for my parents‘ sake, I would allow him to stay here.
The sunflowers bloomed year after year, chasing after the sun they could never leave, even in death.
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