Wendy Hartwell was gone.

Out in that remote ravine in the northwest, the fifth time she tried to slip away, the man who’d bought her lost his temper and smashed her head in with a rock.

When she died, her eyes were still wide open, and all she could think about was her three kids.

But even after death she was hopeless with directions, wandering round and round those mountains, never finding a way out.

More than ten years later, a man with snow‑white hair trekked into the mountains alone and somehow found her remains.

Only then did she finally leave the place that had trapped her for so many years.

He led her all the way south, step by step, until they reached their hometown.

The man was her husband from back then, Nathan Morrison.

Nathan wasn’t even forty yet, but his whole head was white, and the lines on his face made him look like he was past fifty.

He told her he hadn’t died back then at all. Three years after folks said he’d fallen in battle—just one month after she’d been taken—he came home.

When she was dragged away, she’d had their two‑year‑old strapped to her back. That little boy later got sold off, had his leg broken, and was thrown onto the streets to beg.

Her six‑year‑old, realizing his mom had vanished, ran barefoot all the way to the county town looking for her. Later he slipped into the wrong crowd, got tied up in a killing, and died while on the run.

And the middle boy… he spent his whole life searching for his mom and his brothers, his health ruined before he even reached adulthood.

Just a few days before Nathan found Wendy’s bones, the middle one took his last breath too.

All three boys died without ever seeing their mother again.

Nathan sat by Wendy’s grave, with their sons buried right beside her.

He looked like all the color had drained out of him, his eyes dull and lifeless. “It’s all on me,” he said. “If I’d refused your cousin’s idea of you marrying in my place, none of this would’ve happened. You wouldn’t have ended up with me, and you wouldn’t have suffered like that.”

Wendy’s spirit perched on top of the tombstone. She looked at the man in front of her and tried to reach out, brush his cheek, but her hand slipped right through him.

She couldn’t touch him.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Wendy Hartwell let out a low sigh. "I didn’t take good care of the kids. That’s on me."

If she could do it all over again...

She wouldn’t let herself be that useless.

Back when her husband died, when Mrs. Morrison forced her to remarry, she should’ve fought them tooth and nail.

Summer of 1975. Rain, coming down for days without a break.

Heavy drops slammed against the tiles, rolled off the eaves, and splashed all over the yard.

"Auntie, Auntie! Wendy jumped into the river!"

"In weather like this—if Old Lu hadn’t gone to check the water level and spotted someone drifting downstream—he fished her out just in time. Another minute, who knows where she would’ve ended up!"

It had been raining for days. The river ran yellow and muddy, rising dangerously high. Jumping in now… even finding the body would be a miracle.

A thin old woman suddenly rushed out of the house. Short, bony, with high cheekbones and narrow eyes—one look told you she wasn’t easy to deal with.

She charged to the edge of the yard and started yelling toward the gate, her voice sharp as a knife. "That shameless wretch! Killing my son wasn’t enough, now she wants to make a scene again? If she wants to die, she’d better do it far away—don’t drop dead at my doorstep and bring me bad luck!"

"Auntie, come on, it’s a new era. You can’t just talk like that," someone tried to remind her.

But Mrs. Morrison wouldn’t listen. She snorted and snapped, "If she wants to die, let her! Saves me the money for a coffin!"

The villagers carried Wendy back and set her down on the floor inside the house.

"Whatever she’s done, she still gave your family three grandsons. No matter how much trouble she causes, you ought to hold back a bit," one of them said.

Then, with their own work waiting, they all headed off.

Mrs. Morrison spat on the ground. "If she’s gonna die, she’d better hurry up." With that, she turned away, not even glancing back.

Wendy felt cold—bone-deep cold, the kind that seeped into her even in her dreams.

Shivering, she forced her eyes open. On the ceiling were dusty cobwebs, and with a soft drip, a drop of water leaked through and landed right on her forehead.

Without thinking, she murmured, "Nathan Morrison, I’m cold."

Only after the words slipped out did she realize—Nathan would never hear her again. She was just a wandering soul now…

But the room around her—this miserable place leaking rain from every corner, water dripping nonstop—was far too real. She turned her head and saw five or six chipped bowls scattered on the floor, all catching the water falling from the rafters.

The sight was so solid, so vivid, it left no room to doubt where she was.