Not only had she learned how to cook, but she had also mastered flower arrangement, the tea ceremony, pastry making, dancing, painting, fencing… The list went on.
She had turned herself into a jack-of-all-trades.
She even learned skills she used to dislike.
Staring at her phone screen, Isabella couldn't help but exclaim, "Is this cheating?"
Her hands were sore from scrolling, yet she kept going until she finally reached an old friend's post from 2017.
The moment she read it, her heart clenched painfully.
*"It's raining lightly, as if the sky is bidding you farewell. Everyone has left, and the whole world feels empty. It seems like I'm the only one left.
The parting of life and death came so suddenly that I didn't even have time to say goodbye. No one else will ever love me the way you did."*
The post had no subject, no accompanying pictures. She had no idea who it was talking about.
But the pain—the overwhelming sorrow—was so raw and familiar that tears welled up in her eyes.
She wiped her tears away and stared at the damp marks on her hands, as if in disbelief.
A faint, terrifying suspicion formed in her heart.
No.
It couldn't be.
She had to be wrong.
She must be wrong.
Just as she was desperately trying to deny it, Uncle Noah's voice pulled her back to reality.
"Young Mistress, we've arrived. This is Wilson Mansion No. 3."
Isabella looked out the car window.
It was indeed her house.
The scenery was all too familiar.
"Okay." She quickly wiped her tears, got out of the car, and rushed to ring the doorbell.
She firmly believed that the moment her parents saw her, they would be overjoyed.
They would rush to open the door, wrap her in a warm embrace, and say, "Our baby is back!"
Standing on tiptoe, she eagerly peeked inside.
A moment later, the door opened.
A tall young man with long legs walked toward her.
From a distance, she couldn't see his face clearly.
But… she didn't recognize him.
Had she rung the wrong doorbell?
She tilted her head and checked.
No—this was definitely No. 3 Wilson Mansion.
Then, she noticed something else.
Under the house number, there had once been a nameplate—a plaque she had personally designed—engraved with the word Wilson in elegant calligraphy.
But now, it was gone.
Instead, a new nameplate had taken its place.
The Wilson family had become the Moore family.
The young man finally reached the door, studying her with curiosity.
After a brief pause, he asked, "Isabella?"
Isabella turned toward him, staring at his face.
She hesitated, then carefully identified him.
"…James?"
The man squinted slightly before breaking into a smile.
"It's me."
Stunned, Isabella instinctively took two steps back.
She had met James in school.
Her first love.
Back then, he was a third-year senior, and she had fallen for him instantly.
But their relationship had lasted only a day.
Just one day.
Because Ethan had ruined it.
He had told her mother about her "puppy love," and after a long, serious talk with her parents, she was forbidden from seeing James again.
James had left the country shortly after.
They lost contact completely.
That was why she hated Ethan.
And now—six years later—she had unexpectedly run into James again.
He was taller now. His facial features had matured.
Gentle. Handsome.
But…
"Why are you here?" Isabella asked, her voice full of disbelief.
"This is my home. I bought this villa three years ago," James replied casually.
Isabella felt as if the ground beneath her feet had disappeared.
"…What? How is that possible?"
She shook her head.
"This can't be your house… This is my home…"
James studied her reaction.
"Why? Did you know the former owner?" he asked.
Isabella didn't answer.
She was frozen in place, her mind struggling to catch up.
James hesitated before pushing the door open.
"Do you… want to come in and take a look?"
She hesitated for a long moment.
Then, slowly, she stepped inside.
The interior of the villa was almost exactly as she remembered.
The layout was unchanged. The space still carried echoes of the past.
But something was missing.
The oil painting her mother had adored was gone.
The furniture her father had picked out had been replaced.
The swing in the backyard—the one she used to sit on for hours—had vanished.
James broke the silence.
"I heard that the previous owner passed away in a car accident. The family couldn't bear to stay here anymore, so they sold the villa."
He glanced around.
"Otherwise, villas in this neighbourhood are nearly impossible to buy. They're priceless."
Car accident…
A sudden flash of memories erupted in her mind.
Like an old film reel spinning out of control, fragments of a long-forgotten past crashed into her consciousness.
Isabella clutched her head in agony.
The pain was unbearable—like someone had struck her skull with a hammer, splitting it open.
A scream tore from her throat.
"Ahh… Dad… Mom!"
And just like that—she remembered everything.
Winter, 2017.
She had gone home for the holidays.
One evening, as she was watching TV in the living room, the phone rang.
Absentmindedly, she picked it up.
A stranger's voice came through the line.
The man claimed to be a business associate of the Wilson family.
He wanted to speak to her parents.
Without thinking, she called them over and handed over the phone.
After that call, everything changed.
Her parents' expressions turned grim.
They told her they wouldn't be home for dinner.
They left in a hurry, saying they had something important to take care of.
That night, she was woken up by another phone call.
This time, it was the police.
Her parents' car had lost control on the slippery road due to the rain and snow.
It crashed into a guardrail.
The fuel tank leaked.
A fire ignited.
Then—the car exploded.
Her parents died on the spot.
At the funeral, no one knew how much guilt consumed her.
She was suffocating under its weight.
She kept thinking—
If I hadn't answered that call…
If I hadn't given the phone to my father…
Would they have stayed home that night?
Would they still be alive?
She blamed herself.
She believed—no, knew—that she had caused their deaths.
It was all her fault.
The memories hit her with such force that her body couldn't handle it.
Her breathing became ragged, her chest tightening as darkness crept into her vision.
Before she could say another word, her world tilted—and everything went black.
The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was James' panicked face.
She fell into a deep, endless dream.
In the dream, she was trapped inside a cold iron cage, its walls lined with sharp barbs.
Darkness surrounded her.
She couldn't even see her own hand in front of her face.
And no matter how much she screamed, no one answered.