CHAPTER 495: WHAT SHOULD NEVER BE REMEMBERED (PART THREE)

Clyde strode over to the other room, placing Micah on the bed they had shared the night before.

His movements were careful and slow.

He brushed his thumb across Micah’s cheek. The damp skin reminded him of Micah’s tears, twisting something inside his chest.

He lay beside Micah, hugging him tightly. He wished he could erase everything related to those past memories.

He had no idea how much Micah remembered or what exactly, but none of it could be good. The memories of their past lives, those moments of torments, betrayal, and loss, were things better left buried.

Maybe the first life had been different, maybe there had been something beautiful once, before everything collapsed. But Clyde couldn’t recall much of that anymore. What remained were flashes: Micah being tied up, Darcy’s shaking hands gripping a gun, and endless blood.

He closed his eyes. "Please," he whispered, almost like a prayer, "forget it all."

The thought of Micah recalling everything made his heart bleed. Why did fate have to be so ruthless to Micah? He was just a kind-hearted, naive, reckless boy.

Sure, sometimes he said things that made you want to punch him, or did things no one could quite understand, even putting himself in danger. But Micah never hurt anybody intentionally, right? So why this endless torture?

Clyde’s memories of Micah always began when everything had been revealed. Micah had been abandoned by the Ramsy family; his relationship with everyone was strained. Everyone had called him the fake young master, the fraud who stole another’s life.

Technically, Micah had lost everything.

But to Clyde, he wasn’t any of that. He was just a young man behind the bar counter, with tired eyes and a crooked smile, trying to make it through another night.

Clyde couldn’t guess what exactly Micah had gone through before meeting him. But he had always been fond of his little brother, talking about how great Darcy was.

Clyde told himself he shouldn’t get close to Micah; the young man was not even part of the story. But deep down, he had always been drawn to him. Always wanted to protect him.

And yet...he never did enough. He always chickened out, never confessed to the boy, and ended up finding him only later, as a ghost of himself, bruised and broken, in that run-down apartment... and it was already too late, as usual.

What had Micah gone through before that? What if he remembered and broke down under the pressure? Would it destroy him?

Why did God have to be so cruel to him?

Clyde’s heart ached. He pulled the boy tighter in his arms. He wanted nothing more than to keep Micah in this moment forever, safe, warm, untouched by the memories or fear. He wanted to see him laugh again, the way he used to, bright and free.

But the thought haunted him... what if Micah remembered, then what should Clyde do? What if Micah hated him for being late? For his indecisiveness in their past lives? Demanding why he never came after him? Help him?

He didn’t have any answer to that. Clyde knew he was to blame for always failing Micah.

*****

Darcy felt his mind drift in and out of awareness, floating somewhere between sleep and feverish haze. Voices echoed faintly around him, warped and distant like sounds underwater.

He could recognise Micah’s voice, broken, trembling, crying, and begging. But it sounded far away, as if from another world.

His own body felt unbearably hot, his skin burning, bones aching, his thoughts scattered and slow.

He dimly realised that he must have fallen sick. Last night, his throat had started to scratch, his muscles throbbed, and his head felt too heavy to lift. But he had never imagined it was this serious. Maybe it was long overdue. His body had been constantly under too much pressure lately. Maybe this was simply the point where it gave up.

When he finally stirred awake, the room came into focus. Something damp and refreshing rested on his forehead. A towel. He turned his head, blinking rapidly before his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Next to him, half-slumped over the bed, was a silver-haired figure. Micah’s head rested on the edge of the mattress, one arm tucked under it, the other loosely gripping the blanket. He had fallen asleep sitting on the floor, wrapped in another blanket that had slipped halfway off his shoulder.

Darcy shifted in the bed, wincing at the dull ache in his body. When he moved his arm, something tugged sharply. He frowned and tilted his head. An IV line was taped to his hand, the tube running to a clear infusion stand beside the bed.

He sighed softly. Of course. Rich people. Always bring the hospital home. One had been at the villa and now here, calling doctors for a home visit...

The thought made him smirk bitterly. In his last life, even when he had been recognised as the Ramsy family’s young master, he had never received this kind of treatment. No doctors rushing to check on him, no care for his well-being. Back then, illness was just another weakness to be ignored.

The irony wasn’t lost on him now.

Darcy swallowed, but his throat burned like fine sand scraping in it. He glanced around, searching for water. On the nightstand was a glass. He shifted slightly, trying to sit up with his free arm, but found that his other hand was trapped. Micah’s head was resting on it.

Darcy hesitated. He didn’t want to wake him up. But thirst won out. He carefully pulled his hand free, trying not to disturb him.

Yet Micah jerked awake immediately. His eyes flew open, unfocused at first, darting wildly until he found Darcy’s face. The next second, relief washed over his features.

Micah clutched his hand. "Thank god!" he breathed out, his voice hoarse and shaky. "You gave us a heart attack!"

Darcy blinked, puzzled. He didn’t remember giving anyone a heart attack. He had only been sick. His lips pressed together. Maybe this fake young master was too sheltered, thinking a simple fever was kind of a disaster.