If you Don't Love Me, I Will Die

Chapter 23

My heart ached unbearably.

Even though it was not my own memory, the pain of that memory was so intense that I couldn’t control the flowing tears, and I knelt down, overwhelmed.

My eyes grew hot, and my vision kept blurring.

The tears kept welling up and obstructing my view as I wiped them away.

“Edward...”

Ania approached me with a concerned voice. Her warm touch landed on my back.

“It’s okay.”

A gentle voice brushed through my ears.

“Everything’s okay.”

I couldn’t understand what was okay.

Was it okay not to remember, or was it okay to cry?

But it made it hurt more.

The fragmented memories blurred like a faded photograph, covering my eyes.

It was a scene of a young boy and girl looking down at the village from this hill.

“I’ll... definitely... always...”

Young Edward’s voice stretched and contracted like an old phonograph repeating.

“What... did you say...?”

I couldn’t fully understand the words of young Edward. I could only see his blurry expression.

“It’s a promise... we must... definitely...”

Soon after, the voice of young Ania could be heard.

Similarly, I couldn’t understand.

It seemed like a significant promise, but I couldn’t grasp it at all.

“What are you saying...”

Then, the abruptly emerging memory was cut off,

A sudden downpour stopped just as quickly.

My mind returned from the distant past to the present.

It was not the cool breeze of autumn with red leaves decorating the sky but the cold wind blowing on the eve of the festival at the Brontë estate.

On the cold hill, the young children disappeared, leaving only two adults.

“Phew...”

I exhaled and wiped the tears flowing down my cheeks.

Then, Ania’s worried face appeared. She gently wrapped her arms around my shoulders.

“Edward...”

Even though I tried to avoid her approaching face, my body wouldn’t cooperate, and I leaned forward, resting my body against hers.

With all her strength, Ania supported my heavy body.

“I feel like... we made some kind of... promise on this hill.”

A cracked voice came out of my mouth.

“Yeah.”

“What was the promise?”

“......”

Ania didn’t answer. Her hand that was stroking my back slowly stopped.

She gently pushed herself away from my body, holding onto my shoulders, then smiled faintly.

It was a lonely smile.

“It seemed like a very important promise.”

“Yeah.”

I asked what it was, but Ania just nodded.

“Shall we go back now?”

Then, she slowly got up from her seat and walked towards the stairs.

Her steps and figure seemed precarious.

“Be careful. The stairs might be slippery.”

“I won’t fall. Don’t worry.”

Watching the loneliness of her retreating figure, I lightly grabbed Ania’s arm.

“You might fall.”

“Let go; I’m fine.”

“Why are you like this all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know.”

Unlike the previous year, when the weather was unfavorable and the festival was gloomy due to a poor wheat harvest, this year’s wheat harvest was bountiful thanks to good weather.

As a result, Ania had to spend busy days.

While the villagers prepared for the harvest festival, the Brontë family members oversaw everything.

However, even among the family, there were those who mattered more: Valentine and Ania Brontë.

Valentine Brontë was constantly occupied with managing the estate’s affairs and overseeing the festival, leaving him with little time to spare.

As a result, Ania was the only one who could effectively supervise the festival on-site.

Perhaps the reason her father called her was not for the harvest festival speech but for this.

Ania gazed up at the sky with a bitter smile.

Ash-like snowflakes danced in the sky.

Then, a memory floated into her mind.

‘Mother.’

Ania let out a soft chuckle.

‘Will Mother not come again this year?’

Of course, Ania was aware that her mother, Viola Brontë, was leading a hectic life.

Her mother, Viola Brontë, married into nobility but was not suited for the aristocratic lifestyle.

With a keen interest in Eastern technology, she left for the East when Ania was too young to remember.

She returned to the estate every few years, but her busy schedule made it difficult to see her often.

It had been five years since Ania last saw her mother.

Now, her face was so faint in memory that it took a long time to search through her memories just to recall it.

‘Does she think of me?’

Ania didn’t ask for much from her mother.

She didn’t seek love like other mothers.

Studying Eastern technology was her mother’s dream, so Ania didn’t ask her to give it up.

Yet, if she was a mother...

At least, couldn’t she have been there for her, like other parents?

Even if she was busy, couldn’t she have sent a letter occasionally?

Couldn’t she have asked if she was well if her health was good?

There was no need for warm embraces.

Just remembering.

That alone would have been enough.

Shouldn’t she even expect the simplest of feelings?

Shouldn’t she hope for it?

Is that what it means to be an adult and noble?

Or is she someone who shouldn’t expect others’ love?

Despite the multitude of men willing to give their lives for her, she never received the love from those who wished to be loved.

Neither her mother nor Edward remembers her.

Edward even forgot the oath they promised to never forget.

But she couldn’t blame him.

Ania had lived forgetting Edward, who had once saved her as a child.

Edward had done nothing wrong.

It was she who was at fault.

Yet, Ania resented herself for treating Edward coldly.

She felt disillusioned with herself, feeling unworthy of both giving and receiving love.

Snowflakes fell from the sky.

The joyful laughter of the villagers could be heard.

Amid the festival celebrating the year’s harvest,

Ania had to force a smile she didn’t want to show.

She was a lady of the Brontë family.

Noble and grown-up.