Twisted Ties of Love

Brett was a man who scoffed at the idea of fate, but after the tragic loss of Izabella, he found himself drawn to an old cathedral in R City. Lighting a candle and leaving a donation, he knelt before the statue of a saint, even though he was unsure of what had compelled him to seek solace in such a place.

The act felt in part therapeutic, and in part self-flagellation.

An elderly priest noticed him, a figure of stillness amidst the flickering candles, and approached to warn him that kneeling for too long could harm his knees. Brett remained unresponsive, so the priest offered, "Son, would you like me to read your fortune?"

Looking up, Brett gave a slight nod.

After Brett provided his name and date of birth, the priest asked, "What shall we look into?"

Brett struggled to find an answer. Since Izabella's death, his desires had faded, and nothing held meaning anymore.

The priest studied Brett in silence, and then asked him to extend his left hand to read his palm. His gaze lingered on a scar in Brett's palm while he murmured a prayer and made calculations in his head; soon he arrived at a conclusion.

He wrote a single word: "Nothing."

Wealth without joy, no family to share his fortunes with no parents, no wife, no child.

Such a curse was new even to the priest, who shook his head and sighed deeply as he pondered Brett's fate. Orphaned as a child, widowed and childless as a young man, he had a life of solitude with a looming shadow of a premature end.

The only blessing Brett seemed to have was financial security.

He had never believed in destiny, but the priest's words struck a chord. Brett's life seemed a cruel jest, as if he had gambled everything on Izabella and lost it all to the whims of fate.

Christmas Eve had marked the beginning of his story with Izabella. Now, it was nothing more than a lingering obsession.

Brett had made his plans. He intended to spend one last Christmas Eve in memory of Izabella before bringing everything full circle.

But fate had other plans. His illness worsened suddenly.

The culprit was the plate of chili-laden pork kidneys-a dish Izabella had mastered. Brett had devoured it, with chilies and all, in a masochistic fulfillment of a death wish. Ignoring the hospital, he called his personal medical team. They rushed to his side with their equipment; the process was silent but for the urgent scurry of their steps.

Izabella stood outside, watching the commotion with an unexpected twinge of concern. This was not the first time she had seen Brett collapse, but it was the first time she truly comprehended the severity of his condition.

Brett's lungs were failing. The excessive spices, the sleepless nights, and the bitter cold of R City's winter without a hint of sunshine had exacerbated his condition. The flu and fever made each breath of him a struggle, but he refused to fall; there were still things he wanted to do.

Coughing violently, he spat out a mouthful of blood, the crimson stark against his pallid complexion.

Surgery was not an option Brett would entertain, and without his consent, the doctors could only provide emergency care on the spot.

Izabella, staying outside, was approached by a nurse who inquired about her relationship to Brett.

What was she to him? His ex-wife? An enemy? A stranger?

The nurse, misinterpreting her silence, thought she was perhaps a mistress kept by a rich man-a scenario she'd seen all too often. "How is he?" Izabella's voice was flat and devoid of concern, as if she was inquiring about a stranger.

"Cancer is such a beast; the

emotional state can significantly impact the patient's health. Optimism is crucial, and so are dietary habits. Mr. Windham must

e have indulged in something he shouldn't have, and he might have had bad sleep in this cold weather, which caused his condition to deteriorate," the nurse explained.

"He really has cancer?"

The nurse was taken aback. "You didn't know about it?"

"I did. I want to know how long he can still live."

Izabella was familiar with the situation. When she was diagnosed with stomach cancer, the doctor had looked at her with the same pity and helplessness.

"I need to understand Mr. Windham's recent condition further. Can you share with me?" the nurse prodded, hoping for more clues to Brett's rapid decline; his body was now gaunt, a stark contrast to the muscular frame he once had.

Izabella nodded in response to the doctor's inquiry.

"What has Brett been eating lately?" the doctor asked, probing for a clue to his patient's worsening condition.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

With a slight shrug, Izabella replied, "He had a plate of jalapeño poppers."

It seemed they had found the culprit. Although the doctor had suspected that diet might play a role, it was still shocking for him to hear it

l.n

confirmed by Izabella. It was hard to believe that someone would gamble

with their life so carelessly

carelessly

"Why on earth would he eat something so spicy? I remember he's been avoiding hot food for ages. We've been really strict with his diet here, and he's never coughed up this much blood before." The doctor tried to keep his tone even, but there was an undercurrent of reproach in his words.

"Don't you know he has cancer? Why didn't you stop him? With this illness, he doesn't have much time left, and right now Brett looks like he can't handle any stress at all."

Izabella just wanted to know how

many days Brett had left. She

wished the doctor would cut the

chatter. Cancer - of course, she knew about the dietary restrictions, the inability to endure any strain, and the excruciating pain during an episode. She'd been through it, so she understood exactly what Brett was going through.

But what of it?

Surely Brett's suffering was nothing compared to the things he had done to her in the past.

After all she had been through, she was still here. And Brett? Was he going to die just because of a plate of jalapeños?

Izabella cast her gaze downward, so as to hide her emotions from view.

The doctor mistook her silence for self-reproach and concern for Brett. Seeing that she was a woman, he tried to offer some comfort.

"Don't worry too much," he said gently. "Although there's no cure for advanced lung cancer with the current level of medical technology, the field is advancing every day. There could be a breakthrough at any moment."

Just then, someone called from inside the room.

"Dr. Zack, could you come here, please?"

As the door swung open, Brett's coughing continued, each hack more gut-wrenching than the last, so much so that it pulled at the heartstrings and caused a physical ache in his ears.

Izabella despised the person she was becoming, as she found herself resembling the very person she loathed the most.

Who else knew that Brett was on his deathbed with cancer?

A man who had made enemies everywhere, who wouldn't even spare his own aunt's family - had he ever considered that once he was gone, there might be no one left to visit his grave during the holidays?