All that answered her was the dial tone after Elias Sommers hung up.
Seraphina Quinn lifted her head and glanced out the window.
The glass reflected her silhouette, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, and the faint outline of her face.
It seemed to be snowing again outside.
Seraphina Quinn's thoughts began to drift far away.
At eighteen, she had stolen her family's official register, thrown caution to the wind, and registered her marriage to a man abroad.
'Back then, I was so... reckless.'
The day they got their marriage certificate, the weather was just like this—snowy.
The northwest wind howled, gusting into the basement apartment the man was renting.
On the day they registered their marriage, she had unfortunately fallen ill. A high fever left her drowsy and her entire body aching.
She lay weakly in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest, her voice so frail it sounded as if she might die at any moment.
