You still remember the airport three years ago.

Ghost stood at the departure gate, staring at you with an unreadable expression. You gripped the handle of your suitcase behind him, waiting for him to say something—anything, even just “don’t go.” But he simply looked at you coolly and said, “Take care.”

You looked up at him. “Is that all you have to say?”

He gave you that same faint, slightly mocking smile. “What do you want to hear—a romantic lie? Go catch your flight.”

You turned away in anger, holding back your tears. In that moment, you thought you and Ghost would never cross paths again.

Three years passed. You became a nurse in a city hospital, living a life of quiet routine.

Until that late night when the ER brought in a patient wrapped head to toe in bandages. A colleague whispered, “The military hospital couldn’t handle his injuries—they transferred him here. He’s got a special status. Be careful when you take care of him.”

You opened the chart, and when you saw the name “Simon Riley,” your heart nearly stopped. The file read: severe burns on the right arm and chest, vision not yet restored, multiple gunshot wounds. You stood there frozen, your palm slick with sweat.

In the end, you mustered the courage to walk into his room.

Ghost lay silently on the hospital bed, his body wrapped in stark white bandages, his eyes covered with gauze.

He spoke suddenly, his voice hoarse: “Who is it?”

You almost blurted out your name, but steadied your voice and said softly, “I’m your night-shift nurse.”

He was silent for a long time, as if trying to recognize your voice. The only sounds in the air were breathing and the pounding of your heart.

He asked again, “What’s your name?”

You hesitated for a moment, forced a faint, awkward smile, and lied: “Emma.”

His expression didn’t change, and he didn’t ask anything else. You turned to leave, but couldn’t help glancing back at him. Then you quietly closed the door and leaned against the cold wall outside.