Chapter 2722: Unable to Tell Dream from Reality

He had no idea how much time had passed before he left the villa, opened his umbrella, and walked out into the small yard.

As soon as he stepped out, the rain came down in torrents, drumming on his black umbrella and streaming off the edge in a rushing curtain. Raindrops hit the fabric with sharp cracks, like beads bouncing and scattering.

Sylvan Cheney stared straight ahead.

In the distance there was nothing at all, only an endless night stretching out, with no end in sight.

There was a glimmering sheen in Sylvan Cheney’s eyes, like the lights along the roadside—hazy and flickering, yet with a distinct clarity within.

Raindrops splashed and danced at the tips of his shoes; the ground beneath his feet was a sheet of damp.

The wind blew against his body, lifting the hem of his suit jacket; in his deep-set brows and eyes there remained that constant, heavy shadowed depth.

The chill wind against his body brought a peculiar sort of feeling. Sylvan Cheney stood in the rain for a long time, long fingers gripping the umbrella, his silhouette merging with the night.

In his dreams, he had dreamed of this scene countless times.

On rainy days, he would walk under a large umbrella through the night.

Only in the dream, there was always a little girl at his side.

It was the same little girl, but her looks kept changing—a small, short ten-year-old, pure and adorable; fifteen or sixteen, in the throes of rebellious youth, stubborn and bewildered; then a bit older, around eighteen or nineteen, grown tall and slender, beautiful and radiant.

He had never known a dream could depict a girl’s growth over years so vividly; it was quite a strange thing.

And this girl looked so very much like Jasmine Yale.

In the dream, he would often hold the umbrella over her; when the rain was too heavy, he would tilt it toward her side. It didn’t matter if his own shoulder got wet, as long as the rain didn’t touch her.

When they walked side by side, he was always taciturn.

But she was different. She seemed very happy, even gleeful, and would say a lot to him—like how her deskmate got caught by the teacher for copying homework, or how the music teacher had taught them to dance that day.

They were childish topics, the sort of thing he wouldn’t even care to hear on an ordinary day, yet in the dream, for some reason, not only did he listen, he would keep listening as they walked on and on.

The sound of the rain blended with her clear, crisp voice, like the most beautiful music in the world, making him unable to pull away.

Sylvan Cheney rubbed his forehead.

He really had gone a bit mad, unable to tell dream from reality.

Before his eyes the rain fell in unbroken sheets; there was no one there but him.

He had never been a sentimental man, nor one to act on emotion, yet now, somehow, a few dreams were enough to keep him mired in recollection.

Perhaps it was because those dreams were too vivid.

Sylvan Cheney gave a mirthless laugh, the corners of his lips lifting with a trace of self-mockery.

He strode through the rain and got into his car.

He had not left the hospital, and he wasn’t going to leave tonight.

He lit a cigarette. The smoke quickly filled the cramped interior of the car, heavy with the thick reek of nicotine.

His men were still stationed all around the hospital, appearing like dragons that show their head but not their tail, hidden in the darkness; even he could feel that eerie chill.

The rain was pouring down. Without the wipers on, the windshield was a fog of water, his view blurred.

His head, for once, didn’t hurt today, and his thoughts were sharp; he hadn’t taken any pills, just smoked and listened to the rain outside the window.

Everywhere was a white blur. Autumn had passed, the cold front had arrived, and it was winter once more.

Winter was cold, and harder to endure.

Sylvan Cheney exhaled a mouthful of smoke.