The old Countess sat on a chair slightly distanced from Lynch, raising her hand to smooth her hair.
Her hair was not messy, with a gemstone hairpin, looking not childish at all, but rather like she was holding onto the last tail of youth.
"My husband's luck was unfortunate...," she began with this sentence, while Lynch listened quietly.
"It was just a fever; none of us paid much attention to his condition. After taking some medicine, the fever eased, and he told us everything would be alright."
"Can you imagine? In the morning, he told me he planned to do something for the children, but then fell unconscious by noon and didn't make it through the night."
When the old Countess spoke about this matter, her eyes were no longer filled with sorrow. Initially, there might have been pain or tears, but as the event faded, it became an insignificant symbol in the long yet brief life.
