Chapter 44

Nathan Evans pushed open the front door, greeted by the familiar emptiness of his home.

He loosened his tie with irritation, undoing the top button of his dress shirt.

The kitchen light flickered on suddenly, freezing him in the doorway.

On the stove sat the clay pot Evelyn Langley always used, its lid bearing a hairline crack. She had chipped it last month while making congee, her face scrunched in frustration as she lamented how it had served her faithfully for three years.

His fingers traced the crack almost involuntarily.

In his memories, she rose before dawn, moving soundlessly through the kitchen. The millet needed soaking, the yams required peeling and dicing, the red dates had to be pitted. She always insisted store-bought congee lacked soul—only her slow-simmered version would do.

"Young master?"

Mrs. Watson's voice snapped him back to reality.

"Madam sent me to check on you." The housekeeper held a thermal container. "You don't look well."

His gaze dropped to the container. "Make some millet congee."

Mrs. Watson hesitated. This was the third time this week.

Two hours later, she carried the congee upstairs to find Nathan sprawled across the bed fully dressed, his forehead glistening with sweat.

Her breath caught when she touched his burning skin.

The villa blazed with lights deep into the night.

Margaret Evans arrived to find the family doctor administering an IV. Nathan's cheeks burned with fever, his lips cracked and peeling.

"Evelyn..." His delirious murmur hung in the air.

Margaret stepped back with red-rimmed eyes, recognizing the clay pot as Evelyn's treasured possession.

At 3 a.m., Nathan surfaced to consciousness as chilled fluids entered his veins.

After long minutes staring at the ceiling, he rasped, "Phone."

A nurse handed over her mobile.

The familiar number rang twice before connecting.

"Hello?"

Evelyn's sleep-softened voice drifted through the receiver, warm as her homemade congee.

Nathan's throat worked, a thousand words lodged beneath his ribs. His lips parted—only to release a ragged exhale.

Fabric rustled on the other end. Then the dial tone.

He clutched the phone until the screen went dark.