Chapter 64

Truth is, there was nothing much to blame. And even if there was, it would boil down to things that no one could even get a hold of.

If he were to blame the fact he didn't pay attention to his family's emotions, then he could blame the unfortunate circumstance they were born with.

If he could blame those who are at the top of the hierarchy, he could blame the whole world.

And so, months and years passed by.

Sinclair's son had finally grown up and climbed the age required to join the mandatory military training.

At the same time, Sinclair had already retired after surviving battles and wars where he had been dispatched.

He took that retirement time to take care of his bed-ridden wife who had been getting worse and worse with her sickness.

The physicians would only give her the same prescriptions and herbals over and over, yet nothing seemed to change or improve.

What once seemed to be impossible to repair between the childhood sweethearts had been flimsily patched with the hours and days they're alone together.

And just like their sweet, young days, Sinclair would gently take care of the sick, frail woman until she could get up and dance with him.

There were times that she was able to stand on her feet and hum a mellifluous song for their dance.

They would silently smile at each other and romantically stare beyond their weary eyes of love that was bred from residue.

The last time he was able to dance with her was the same night he kissed her goodnight to send sweet dreams in her rest.

But as if fate had favored the woman, she never woke up from that sweet dream and died with a happy life and a romantic dance.

Sinclair wept and mourned her death for two days until he finally courageously gave her a peaceful funeral.

Even after she was buried six feet under, he was still sad for the memories that had just recently spurred into romance and day by day got lonely thinking of it.

Because of his wife's death, Sinclair had no choice but to do all the labor and housework alone, which included cooking and cleaning the house.

One day he was dusting off and arranging things, he saw piles of parchment papers stuck from his son's chamber.

One of those contained his painting which was repeatedly seen in each of his artwork.

"He wanted to be a musician," Sinclair whispered sadly, looking at his son's ugly portrait of himself standing on the stage before a massive crowd.

He cried, realizing all the mistakes he had done to his family as he was fixated with his wounds from the war that never healed.

Sinclair decided he wanted to apologize to his son after his military service.

But as soon as the boy returned home, he pulled out a knife and quickly thrust it onto his father's chest.

Sinclair let out a tear and silently died, regretting so much about the apology he never got to say.

And when he was extracted from his flesh and became a ghost filled with residues, he thought he had to endure the long suffering as punishment for destroying his son's dream and childhood. He thought it was fine as long as he compensated for the eternal debt of not paying attention or listening to what his child had to say that day.

He thought he should pay for the years he killed his family over and over again.

And that he never blamed himself to come across the thought that cruelty breeds cruelty.