CHAPTER 114: CHAPTER 114: LOVE IS ALWAYS FEELING INDEBTED

At the door of the ward, a nurse knocked.

It interrupted the embrace.

Poppy Hale pushed Declan Hawthorne away and stood up to cooperate with the nurse’s check-up.

It seemed like both of them were planning to stay overnight.

The nurse pointed to the ward next door.

"There’s a camp bed next door. If you need, you can rest there. That ward is empty."

"Won’t it disturb others?"

The nurse shook her head.

"If a patient comes, you can vacate it, no problem."

After instructing them not to wander around at night and to take Florence Lynch’s temperature a few times, the nurse left.

The atmosphere in the ward was somewhat oppressive.

Poppy Hale looked at the tablet beside her, which already had a sketch outlined on it. Her pen had somehow slid to a different layer, leaving an abrupt line on the sketch.

She opened the hidden layers on the sidebar and looked through them one by one.

It took a long time to find it, but she finally deleted the line.

Her fingers kept trembling.

Her heart was a bit restless.

In the end, she simply stood up, feeling a tangled mess inside her chest, like a knot that couldn’t be untied.

She looked at Declan Hawthorne.

She always felt that his eyes were filled with emotions she couldn’t decipher.

"Can I trouble you to stay here for a while? I need to go home and get some clothes."

"Okay. Also, let your mom know so she won’t worry."

Poppy Hale nodded.

She turned and left the ward.

Exiting the hospital, she waited for the driver from a ride-hailing app.

The night breeze caressed her face, and in the distance, lights flickered and street vendors kept up their noisy chatter.

In Poppy Hale’s mind, there was only the voice of Declan Hawthorne from earlier.

She had told herself not to wonder about what Declan Hawthorne was thinking many times.

But the human mind is like that—the more you don’t want to think, the messier it becomes.

Caring about Declan Hawthorne, thinking about Declan Hawthorne, had become a habit ingrained in her.

She shook her head, trying hard to dispel those thoughts.

After returning home, she first told Truth Hale about Florence Lynch’s hospitalization, so she wouldn’t worry.

She packed a few pieces of clothing and took along the clothes and toiletries needed for the hospital stay.

Truth Hale helped Poppy Hale pack the clothes.

"You’re back. Who’s at the hospital? Did your colleague go to help?"

Poppy Hale mumbled in response.

Truth Hale didn’t suspect anything.

"You should really thank them. I’m dragging your feet because of my health issues."

Poppy Hale put on a straight face, "Mom, don’t say things like this. As long as you’re still by my side, that’s the most important thing to me."

That’s what she said.

But after all, Truth Hale was someone who had weathered the commercial world, had once started a business with her husband in the early years, and was capable of securing million-dollar deals on her own.

In her heart, she still felt it was her dragging things down, bringing a lot of trouble to Poppy.

Truth Hale now only felt.

Love is often feeling indebted.

She owed Poppy Hale, and she owed little Florence Lynch.

Poppy Hale folded Florence Lynch’s clothes neatly into the bag, "Don’t overthink it. The doctor said many organs are controlled by emotions. Stay positive for a healthy life."

"Your healthy presence is better than anything else."

Truth Hale nodded repeatedly.

"By the way, I went to the old house a few times and bumped into your uncle, though they didn’t see me."

Eugene Lynch and his family probably never gave up on that house.

Truth Hale pondered, "I’ve already tidied up the house. I’ve taken back all your father’s things. We’re selling it in a couple of days to avoid more complications."

"Alright, I’ll do whatever you say. Let me know when to sign during the sale."

The old house isn’t easy to sell.

But Truth Hale’s past connections included someone interested in investing in this type of property, and they’ve already discussed prices close to the market rate.

Truth Hale’s idea was that with the current sluggish real estate market, they should sell quickly when they can.

Also saving them from Eugene Lynch and his wife eyeing it.

Poppy Hale received a message on her phone, Declan Hawthorne sent a WeChat asking if she could bring him a few pieces of clothing.

Still wearing his suit all night, it was uncomfortable.

He added, "If it’s inconvenient, never mind."

Poppy Hale replied that it was okay, went next door, placed her hand on his doorknob, and opened the door with the password.

Declan Hawthorne’s home had the exact same decor as hers.

It was clear they were decorated by the same designer, without any extraneous details.

Strangely, though it was the same place, it felt completely different from Poppy Hale’s home.

There was no trace of warmth, like a cold, exhibition model home.

The refrigerator was empty, except for a few bottles of alcohol labeled in English.

As if this man spent his days in drink.

Opening the wardrobe, there were only a few colors, although the drawer for ties was colorful, placed in the cold grid, it seemed quite ordinary.

Poppy Hale took a few comfortable pieces of clothing, her fingers brushing against a box nearby.

Folded underwear fell down.

Poppy Hale blushed, quickly picking them up, hesitating as she put them back, and then still took two pairs with her eyes closed.

Oh well, consider it a favor.

After closing the wardrobe, Poppy Hale turned her head and saw a photo frame on Declan Hawthorne’s bedside table.

Seeing it, she remembered straight away—it was something she had given to Declan Hawthorne.

During school, there was a trend of making DIY albums to give to people.

Poppy Hale also made one.

On the photo frame were colorful fingerprints belonging to her and Declan Hawthorne.

Though he seemed reluctant at the time, he didn’t refuse her sudden whim.

Inside the frame was a photo taken accidentally by a passerby when they went out once.

That day by the West Lake, the sunset was brilliant, the lake shimmering, and flocks of mandarin ducks.

Poppy Hale, wearing a long dress, came down from the Broken Bridge and saw Declan Hawthorne waiting under the willow tree.

Running over, she jumped onto Declan Hawthorne’s back, who frowned but reached out to steady her.

Just then, a passerby took a photo of the West Lake, capturing this moment and later sending it to Poppy Hale.

She loved it right away.

She saved it and even had it printed.

After they broke up, Poppy Hale erased all the photos cleanly.

Seeing this photo, she could still recall that afternoon by the luminous West Lake, with Declan Hawthorne’s steady hand supporting her.

Poppy Hale in the photo smiled like a blossoming flower, radiating happiness.

Backlit, Declan Hawthorne’s expression was hard to see.

Back then, the resolution was low, and the photo was printed many years ago, losing some sharpness.

Poppy Hale stared at the photo frame.

She didn’t expect Declan Hawthorne would place this frame on his bedside.

Returning it, Poppy Hale noticed water stains on the glass.

They were her tears, which had fallen onto the frame.

Leaving Declan Hawthorne’s home, she took a cab to the hospital.

Poppy Hale often suffered from motion sickness, so she seldom looked at her phone while riding.

Doing so would make it worse.

At a red light by the hospital, just as the driver accelerated, an electric scooter shot out from the roadside bushes.

It was too late to stop.

The windshield immediately shattered into a web of cracks, and the electric scooter flew away.