Buried Without His Regret Chapter 10
After the exhibition ended, the photo of Frederick kneeling in front of my painting became the beginning of the Mueller family’s complete downfall.
In the now-empty villa, Caitlin sorted through the things I had left behind.
In the now-empty villa, Caitlin sorted through the things I had left behind.
She uncovered a dusty easel draped with a white cloth.
The moment she pulled it away, she froze.
It was a portrait I’d painted of her.
It wasn’t the polished, untouchable socialite everyone saw, but a middle-aged woman dozing in the garden, a hint of exhaustion softening her features.
I caught her in that one unguarded moment and thought it was a warmth I could reach.
Her hands trembled as she lifted the frame. On the back, in faint pencil, she saw a line I had written.
“Caitlin, thank you for the warmth you once gave me.”
The frame slipped from her hands and hit the floor. She slid down against the wall, letting out a low, broken sob she couldn’t hold back.
A few days later, Caitlin held a press conference. In front of every camera, she bowed deeply.
She announced the creation of the Shannon Art Foundation, committing half of the Mueller family’s assets to support talented young artists who lacked financial means.
Christopher didn’t appear. He only submitted a statement resigning from all positions at the Mueller Group.
Soon after, they left the Mueller’s residence that had once symbolized their power and moved into a quiet, worn-down house in the countryside, living out of the public eye.
As for Frederick, he disappeared after the exhibition.
When I found him again, he was standing on the same rocky shore where I had jumped.
He didn’t cry or speak. He took off his coat, folded it neatly, and set it aside.
Then, he walked toward the dark water that had taken me, and jumped.
I thought that was the end.
But a fishing boat passing through the night spotted him and pulled him out of the freezing water.
He survived, but he never spoke again.
The doctors said there was no physical damage to his brain. It was trauma that had taken his voice.
When a nurse handed him a pen and paper, he gripped it and wrote the same word over and over. “Shannon.”
In the end, Caitlin went to my family’s home.
She wore simple clothes. Her hair had gone mostly white, her face marked by time and hardship.
That day, Mom was clear-headed. She sat in the yard, holding the repaired urn.
That day, Mom was clear-headed. She sat in the yard, holding the repaired urn.
Caitlin knelt in front of her and bowed.
“I’m sorry…”
Mom looked at her for a long time with clouded eyes, then said softly, “My daughter isn’t coming back.”
The story of the Mueller family became something the entire city talked about.
The media called it “Regret that came too late is worth nothing,” using it as the headline to report their fall.
Public opinion shifted over time, from outrage to quiet reflection.
In the countryside house, Caitlin often woke up in the middle of the night.
She dreamed about me again.
In the dream, I was still 20, standing by my easel, turning back to smile at her.
I told her, “I forgive you.”
She jolted awake, her pillow soaked with tears. Outside the window, there was nothing but silence and darkness.
Another year, another Memorial Day.
Frederick came.
His hair had turned gray, his back bent like an old man as he knelt in front of my grave and placed a bouquet of white roses down.
They were my favorite.
He didn’t say a word. He just stayed there, kneeling from morning until dusk.
Nicholas watched from a distance and, in the end, didn’t go over.
He only turned his head and spoke softly to the photo of me in his pocket. “Shanny, he regrets it now.
“But it’s too late.”
Caitlin and Christopher lived quietly in the countryside, tending a yard full of flowers and keeping a lazy cat.
Caitlin would sit in the sun, holding it, murmuring to herself, “If only we had treated her better back then…”
Frederick published a book.
It was a handwritten confession, the letters twisted and uneven, like every word had been forced out of him.
All the proceeds were donated to an organization that fought plagiarism.
It was a handwritten confession, the letters twisted and uneven, like every word had been forced out of him.
All the proceeds were donated to an organization that fought plagiarism.
Under the author’s name, there were only five words. “Frederick Mueller, a guilty man.”
I saw the last page.
“I’ll spend the rest of my life lost in the sea where I lost you. Shanny, I’m sorry.”
My soul drifted back to the shoreline.
The wind carried the endless scent of salt.
I truly smiled for the first time in three years.
Then, I turned toward the light and let myself fade with the wind.
Somewhere, in a place no one could name, Frederick thought he saw my silhouette.
He reached out, but his hand closed on empty air.
Amid the endless sound of waves, he finally shut his eyes as a single tear slipped down his lined face.
“Shanny, if there’s another life, I’ll spend it painting your ‘Deep Sea.'”