On April 15, 1914, at Paddington Cemetery.

I hesitate to step down, trembling at the sight of a family of three coming out from inside the cemetery. The woman takes heavy steps as if she's about to fall and has to rely on the man next to her to support her. I think she's about my age, but the pain and suffering have made her look much older. They are probably a couple, looking devastated and dejected. Perhaps they, like me, are here to bid farewell to their children. Today is the second anniversary of Elizabeth's death, and my beloved Enzo's, and I thought I had felt calm, but the underlying sadness is still haunting me.

The driver still waits patiently, but I'm still not ready to take a step. My husband is no better off either. We are not yet completely ready to face this reality. Francine is only six months old, and her older sister is still in her fifth month. My dear Elizabeth, it all seems like yesterday!

After a while, I finally made up my mind to get out of the car. Though it hurts me deeply, I cannot change the cruel reality. My Elizabeth did not survive the harshness of fate, and she never even opened her eyes to see the sun. This world is too heavy for a living being. I love my little girl so much, and I will keep her image in my heart forever.

I wrap my arms around Augustin, quietly retreating into a deep breath. I look up at the cemetery sign, and a gust of wind blows across my face, making my veil flutter. I swallow a mouthful of saliva, then hide inside, bringing all my emotions and sorrows with me. Then, I take off the veil because it no longer holds any meaning. I wore it on the day my father died, as well as the day Elizabeth was laid to rest, to express my condolences. I have learned to accept, and I will face my daughter with this very face.

My husband and I walk past rows of stone plaques on both sides of the road. There are new and old plaques, some grass-covered, and some so faded that their names are no longer visible. I once read somewhere that the scariest feeling is not death, but being forgotten after death. One day, these gravestones will no longer be tended to, or remembered, and they will return to being a smooth stone surface with a bit of moss clinging to it. Suddenly, I feel afraid. I fear that I will die with nothing to remember. No name, no title or achievement, I will die in oblivion, and my gravestone will simply be an uncarved rock.

I stand before my child's grave. Even though I have prepared myself mentally, tears still fall when I see the words "Elizabeth Morten" on the stone. Someone has visited my child's grave before me, with flowers and a folded paper crane. I quickly recognise who that is because that person had also given me something similar. I quietly bow and place a gentle kiss on the gravestone. My husband can only stand to the side and watch. During the time I clean the grave, he stands still without any movement, even though I know that Augustin, more than anyone else, was the most hurt when Elizabeth died. He still torments himself over our eldest daughter's death. He cannot love our younger daughter Francine in the same way he loved Elizabeth, but I believe that a large part of his emotions is the result of guilt.

I place on my child's grave, next to the flowers and the paper crane, the things that my mother, her aunts, and uncles had given to her. A short story book written by my sister Thena, a small painting of me and Elise by my youngest sister Diana, and David surprised me by carefully carving a wooden dog for my child. My mother was dedicated to knitting a sweater for little Elise. These gifts were originally prepared for our daughter's baptism, but Elise had passed away before receiving them. Last year, when we encountered the issue of my pregnancy with Francine, those gifts had to wait for another year. Finally, after two long years, everyone's thoughts have been given to her. Even my husband has prepared something for Elise. On the fateful night before her death, he had a jeweller make a bracelet for her. The normal shape of the ring resembles climbing ropes with thorn patterns. Augustin dreamt of having a son, but if it were a daughter, he would just rotate the ring in the opposite direction, and the thorns would be replaced by flowers. Four months later, the jeweller delivered the set of rings, but the girl was no longer here to receive it. Augustin stored the jewellery in a drawer and locked it tightly. He had never opened it again until today.

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As for myself, I did not prepare anything for my eldest child. I do not know why, but I simply could not find a suitable gift to give her. I could think of many things: a new set of clothes, a pair of canvas shoes, or an ivory comb... There were too many choices, but I decided to come empty-handed. Because everything I have belongs to my children, and no gift is worthy of that. However, I did prepare something for someone else who is important to me. Two years ago today, Death took not only one but two people I dearly loved. The book I wrote has now been completed. Keeping it with me makes no logical sense. Instead, I will send it to someone deserving of reading these lines. Although it may be a belated apology, both of us will have to live and die with that.

I have long stopped hoping that Enzo will forgive me. I guess that is the only thing that will make me feel unfulfilled when I leave, that I will have to agonise over it for the rest of my life. In that book, I gave Fiona and Enzo a happy ending together. They lived their whole lives in a small house by the lake, a vegetable garden, and a chicken coop, with two mischievous children always clinging to them. That was the fairy tale ending for us, and now I am passing it on to them. Only in that world, Fiona and Enzo are immune to the nagging of reality, the erosion of time, and the quagmire of society. Only in that world can they truly have a life. That is the least I can do to redeem myself, even if it is too late.

A butterfly from nowhere lands on the book I left behind as I prepare to leave. Augustin urges me to return, but my legs feel like they are nailed down and cannot take another step. In my sight, the image of the butterfly grows larger and larger, as if my mind automatically enlarges it. The veins on its four wings remind me of something familiar. It places its curved proboscis on the leather cover of the book. Occasionally, it flaps its wings, and its proboscis moves as if a reader has just finished one page and turned to a new one. Suddenly, many thoughts are mixed together in my head, and some of them make me cry, but not tears of suffering. I feel free and calm. The butterfly suddenly flies to me and lands on my cheek. It extends its proboscis to take that tear as if it were a drop of honey. For so long, I pretended to have shed all burdens and sins; for so long, I thought I had no more worries, but every night when I sleep, I feel myself stranded in the desert of hunger and thirst, without food or water. In this hollow heart, I have never escaped the four walls of the prison. I have never believed that I was truly free until today. Watching the butterfly fly far away, I know I can now end everything. I know I can put down all the chains, complexes, all the suffering and struggling, I know I am free. My lips spread a contented smile, looking down at the paper crane placed on my daughter's grave.

The sky is so blue and high, the wind blows horizontally with the colours of the morning sun. I feel this body suddenly light as a feather. I feel love and hope. I feel like I have come alive again. I take a deep breath, trying to feel every movement on this body. Every piece of flesh, every organ, every sensation on every inch of skin. The smell of jasmine in the flower vase around here becomes overwhelming in the space. I wipe away tears with my sleeve, smiling peacefully, and full of happiness:

"Thank you..."