The scenes of the past surfaced in his mind one after another. To him, every single image was a piercing knife, winter's icy crystals.
Deeply stabbing into his heart.
Every time he thought about it, it hurt once.
Carefully pressing the photo against his chest, Edward Benson's face was pale, gradually exhaling breaths, with a broken sound escaping from the depths of his throat: "Isla... where are you?"
Over 8 p.m, Edward Benson staggered out of the study room.
He went downstairs, walked into the restaurant, the food prepared by the servant was quite homely, four dishes and a soup.
The dishes were already cold, and the servant hesitated, "Young Master, I'll heat up the dishes for you before you eat."
"It's okay, it's fine like this."
Edward Benson picked up the chopsticks, eating in silence.
In the spacious restaurant, he was the only one eating alone, the servant couldn't bear to watch it, quietly left the restaurant.
