The certificate hit the nightstand with a sharp crack, startling the nearby attorney.
He could see his pale reflection in the floor to ceiling window, behind him a closet now half empty–her favorite red dress was gone, leaving only empty hangers swaying in the night breeze,
His fingertip suddenly felt warm. Flipping to the registration date inside: May 23rd.
The day of Celia’s plane crash.
That day Knox had personally handed Celia the plane tickets and told her he was sending her abroad to cool off.
The same day Celia boarded the plane, the civil affairs bureau stamped their divorce certificate.
Both Celia herself and their marriage had completely left his world.
Knox’s vision began to white out, the divorce certificate warping in his sight like red–hot iron.
Pain shot through his palm–he was gripping the certificate so tightly it cut into his skin, just like in their previous life when he’d desperately clutched Celia’s hand, begging her not to go to Mason.
Knox’s throat filled with the taste of metal as blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, his vision going black in waves.
In the darkness, sharp ringing filled his ears like a tsunami crashing through his eardrums. The date on the certificate kept echoing: May 23rd, 2025, the 23rd…
He had lost Celia again.
Three days later, at the cemetery.
In the pouring rain, black umbrellas formed a moving prison of grief.
Knox’s divorce certificate in his inner
Ocket w
was soaked through, the two signatures dissolving in the rainwater.
Knox stared blankly at Celia’s photo on the headstone as scenes flashed through his mind.
He’d carried Celia’s urn down from the black hearse, walked the winding mountain path to the gravesite, then knelt and slowly lowered the urn into the ground. With his own hands, he’d scooped dirt handful by handful to cover it.
Finally, he’d stood aside and watched workers seal his wife away from him forever with cement.
Knox slowly crouched down and reached out to touch Celia’s headstone, but his fingers passed through the wet emptiness, reaching back to when he
was eighteen.
That year, Knox first saw Celia on campus. One look and his eyes could see no one else.
From then on, he fell into the sweet torment of unrequited love.
He wrote love poems for Celia, played piano for her in the sunset–lit music room when she passed by, and played basketball with abandon when she crossed the court with friends.
But Celia’s eyes never held him–only Mason.
It stung, but Knox never gave up.
Later, when the Whitfield and Montgomery families arranged a marriage, he finally married the woman of his dreams.
Knox swore to treat Celia with everything he had, but she only had eyes for Mason.
He tried, he struggled, but in the end, they both died in flames.
In this life, they were both reborn and could have understood each other, lived happily together.
20:54
Two Rebirths Same Tragedy – Are We Cursed or Just Stupid
50.0
Chapter 13
But his stubborn pride had driven Celia to desperation, ultimately killing her.
The light in Knox’s eyes gradually dimmed to death.
In his previous life, after he died holding Celia, he’d been reborn.
If he died at Celia’s grave this time, would he be reborn again?
Could he win Celia back?
With that thought, Knox moved like a marionette, mechanically pulling a knife from his pocket.
He slowly moved it toward his heart.
Just as he was about to plunge the blade into his chest, his phone suddenly rang urgently.
“Young master, the old master is awake!”
