Chapter 1401
All of Thalassa’s attention was fixated on Lysander.
Every morning, she would prepare a nutritious breakfast, patiently spoon–feeding Lysander who was unconscious and unable to swallow on his own.
Mimicking the way Lysander used to coax her into eating porridge, Thalassa would take a mouthful herself and then seal her lips to his, transferring the food from her mouth to his.
When he wouldn’t swallow, she’d gently push the food to the back of his throat and follow it with a sip of water, allowing the liquid to help the food slide down into his stomach.
The only downside to this method was its slowness.
A single meal could take over an hour, but Thalassa remained patient, feeding him bite by bite.
Lysander needed to eat well to maintain his strength, to fend off illness, and to have the possibility of waking up sooner.
At night, it was Thalassa’s responsibility to bathe him.
Stripping off his clothes, she’d catch sight of the plethora of scars marring his body, and her breath would catch, her heart squeezing in pain.
These marks were all for her, remnants of his heroism.
Holding back tears, she’d carefully wipe his body down with a warm towel. Once, his physique might have made her blush, but now, all she felt was only endless ache.
She cleaned him with delicate care, avoiding the still–healing wounds, afraid of causing him any pain. She treated him with the tenderness one might afford a priceless work of art.
As she bathed him, she’d talk to him, “Lysander, I’m sorry. I’ll never say we’re through again, that we owe each other nothing. Just wake up, and I’ll agree to anything. You want to go to the city hall and make it official? My answer will be yes.”
Time flew, and a year passed.
Lysander’s external scars had healed so well they were barely visible. He was kept clean and tidy, but he still remained in a deep slumber, unresponsive to the world around him.
Day in and day out, Thalassa would wash him, speak to him in a soft voice, “Lysander, I’m sorry. It’s my fault you’re trapped in this sleep. I’ve apologized a thousand times over this past year. When will you forgive me? Please wake up.”
4
But Lysander’s eyes remained shut, offering no response.
Tears fell from Thalassa’s eyes.
Time raced on, another year passed.
Lysander still did not wake.
With a bittersweet smile at the corner of her lips, Thalassa would shave him. “Dr. Everest suggested that a small cut might shock your nerves into action. That the pain might wake you. But I can’t bear to hurt you. You’ve been asleep for two years, Lysander. Why won’t you show me any sign? Is it because you can’t forgive me yet?”
The electric razor buzzed softly in her hand as she gently pushed it across Lysander’s stubble.
As always, she talked to him, but the only reply was the steady hum of the razor.
Another year slipped by, and Lysander had been in a coma for three years. All his vital signs were normal.
Thalassa kept him immaculately clean, lying in bed, still as handsome as ever, but only perpetually asleep.
The atmosphere at Royal Estates had been somber for three years.
