Chapter 4: Saving the Man Who Left Me

I always knew the battlefield was dangerous, life hanging by a thread, and that every medal he earned was hard-won.

But seeing the evidence up close was different. It made me realize how much he’d risked, how fragile he really was beneath the armor.

But his repeated glorious returns made me forget—he was only using his mortal body to endure it all.

I always thought he was invincible. But here, bleeding and feverish, he was just a man.

With tears, I stitched up Ethan Blackwell’s wounds.

My fingers worked quickly. Muscle memory. The thread bit into his skin, blood welling up. I blinked back tears, biting my lip.

After that, he had a high fever for three days and nights.

The fever burned through him, leaving him delirious and weak. I sat by his side, wiping his brow with cool cloths, whispering words of comfort he probably never heard.

He was half-awake, his brows knotted together, several times reaching out to grab me, scaring me into quickly covering my face. But he only mumbled a few words and fell asleep again.

He never did. Thank God. Each time his hand brushed mine, I felt a jolt of fear—what if he recognized me? But he never did, lost in fever dreams and memories.

Based on his injuries, I had the soldiers fetch medicine for external application.

They returned with bottles and bandages, their faces drawn with worry. I mixed salves and poultices, applying them as best I could.

Every night before bed, I’d apply the ointment. I’d say, all confident:

“Don’t worry, by tomorrow morning the bleeding will stop. At the latest, the day after tomorrow, the wound will scab and the fever will go down.”

I tried to sound reassuring, more for myself than anyone else. The soldiers nodded, hope flickering in their eyes.

But the next day, the wound would split even wider.

It was maddening. No matter what I did, nothing worked. The infection spread, the fever raged on. I was losing hope.

The manager began to look at me oddly.

He hovered in the doorway, suspicion all over his face. I could feel his gaze burning into my back.

Since childhood, I’d been immersed in the Rivera family’s medicine cabinet, reading medical books like picture books. In all these years after faking my death, I’d never failed to treat a patient’s illness.

But now, I was failing. My father had taught me well—how to read a pulse, how to mix a poultice, how to listen to the body’s secrets. Failure was foreign to me, and it gnawed at my confidence.

Why was it all in vain with Ethan Blackwell?

I replayed every step in my mind, searching for a mistake. But the answer eluded me.

Worried I would delay his recovery, and even more worried I’d affect military affairs, I had to suggest:

“You should find another doctor.”

My voice was barely above a whisper. Shame burned in my cheeks. I couldn’t bear the thought of letting him down, even now.

“There’s an old man named Dr. Lewis in the west side of the city, about ninety years old. Don’t be fooled by his age and thick glasses—his temper is terrible, but his medical skills are as good as any specialist. I’m not skilled enough, I really can’t save your general.”

I rattled off the address, hoping they’d take my advice. Dr. Lewis was a legend in Chicago—if anyone could save Ethan, it was him. I hoped they’d listen.

Before I finished speaking, there was a soft cough from the bed.

It was faint, but unmistakable. I turned, heart in my throat.

The man who’d been unconscious for days slowly opened his eyes, looking at me weakly.

His gaze was sharp, cutting through the fever. I felt exposed. Like he could see right through me.

I swallowed.

My mouth was dry, words sticking to my tongue. I forced myself to stand tall, reminding myself he couldn’t possibly recognize me.

Luckily I was veiled, and after years of wandering and hardship, I’d grown much thinner compared to my pampered life before. Ethan Blackwell probably couldn’t recognize me.

I barely looked like myself. My hair was shorter now, my cheeks hollowed by time and trouble. I kept my head down, voice pitched low.

“You…” As soon as he spoke, his voice was dry and hoarse. “Miss, please come closer. I have something to ask you.”

He beckoned me forward, his hand trembling slightly. I hesitated, then stepped closer, heart pounding.

I lowered my head, respectfully walked to Ethan Blackwell’s bedside, bent down and gave a formal nod, saying:

“General, please speak.”

I kept my tone even, careful not to betray myself. The room felt smaller, the air thick with tension.

Perhaps just recovered from a serious illness, Ethan Blackwell’s voice trembled with weakness:

“Miss, your figure resembles that of an old friend of mine. May I ask… where are you from?”

His eyes searched my face. I forced a smile, nerves jangling.

I replied softly, “I’m from the South, came to Chicago to visit relatives. If not for treating the general, I would have returned home by now.”

The lie slipped out easily, practiced and polished. I’d used it before, in bus stations and boarding houses across the Midwest. Too many times.

“South… which part?”

His question caught me off guard. I hesitated. My mind raced for a plausible answer.

I bit my lip, casually naming a city I’d traveled to. “Savannah.”

The name tasted strange on my tongue, but he seemed to accept it.

Ethan Blackwell sighed deeply:

“Savannah, huh.”

He sounded wistful, as if the word conjured up old memories. I wondered what ghosts he was chasing.

“Years ago I went to Maple Heights to look for someone, lived there for a while. Maple Heights is next to Savannah, the climate is dry, the sun is fierce, women there have darker skin. I’ve rarely seen someone like you…” His Adam’s apple bobbed, “with such fair skin.”

His gaze lingered. I felt sweat trickle down my spine.

I suddenly stepped back, staring at him warily.

My pulse raced, every instinct screaming at me to run. But I stood my ground, forcing myself to meet his gaze. Don’t run. Not yet.

He was looking for someone? Who? Was it me?

I steeled myself, making up something even more ridiculous:

“My ancestral home is Savannah, but my family moved to Asheville when I was young. Asheville is by the mountains and rivers, so over time I grew fairer.”

The words tumbled out, each one more desperate than the last. Please don’t see through me.

“As for now, I settled in Silver Hollow with my husband’s family. After having a child, my mother-in-law is kind, feeds me well, so my skin got even better.”

I forced a laugh, trying to sound casual. The lie grew legs, running ahead of me. It was almost fun, if it wasn’t so terrifying.

After speaking, I smiled at Ethan Blackwell, putting on the look of a simple woman.

I widened my eyes, batting my lashes for good measure. If he suspected anything, he didn’t show it. Fake it ‘til you make it.’

There was a moment of dead silence in the air.

The tension crackled, thick enough to cut with a knife. I held my breath, waiting for him to call my bluff. He didn’t.

Suddenly, Ethan Blackwell curled his lips, slowly sat up—not at all like a man who’d been bedridden for days.

He moved with surprising strength. The old spark was back. I tensed, ready to bolt.

“Young lady, so young, already a mother? May I ask, is your child a boy or girl, and how old?”

His voice was light, almost teasing. I forced a smile, playing along.