Though paralyzed, still radiantly charming!

Chapter 305: And now, it seems like there’s only one explanation left...

Chapter 305: And now, it seems like there’s only one explanation left…

“What… what did you just say?”

Ryan instantly felt cold sweat trickling down his neck, his voice trembling slightly.

He had heard Clara’s words clearly, which is why he was so shocked.

Especially when he saw the dark, clouded look in her eyes—this was the first time Ryan had felt fear from someone other than Miss Alice.

Under her gaze, it was as if an invisible hand was dragging him into a deep, dry well. Even breathing became difficult.

“You heard me.”

Clara didn’t pay much attention to Ryan, calmly watching his reaction.

From the way he unconsciously tugged at his collar to the nervous bobbing of his Adam’s apple, it was clear that, despite being older than her, Ryan was an open book—far too easy to read.

“I wasn’t entirely sure before, but now that you’re here, I’m pretty certain.”

Clara didn’t seem to care about Ryan’s reaction. She wasn’t saying these things for him, but for herself.

Her gaze drifted toward the window, and she fell silent.

Ryan had always thought the view outside the window must be nice, but he had overlooked the height.

On the second or third floor, you could see the trees and hear the birds chirping on the branches.

But on the sixteenth floor, all that was outside was a dull, pale blue sky—silent and empty.

What exactly was she looking at?

“Pretty certain…”

Ryan silently mulled over her words, his fists clenching slightly. The moment he realized he was the one who had brought this harsh truth to her, his already heavy heart sank even further into bitterness.

So, what should he do now? Apologize profusely for his intrusion? Make some empty promises that even he knew he could never keep?

No, that wasn’t the right move. That wasn’t what Ryan was supposed to do.

In Clara’s world, Ryan was just a bystander, someone who couldn’t change anything—and maybe it was best if he didn’t try.

Ryan had expected Clara to break down in tears or lash out after confirming her suspicions. After all, losing a loved one is a devastating blow, and no one can remain composed in the face of such a tragedy.

But things didn’t unfold the way Ryan had imagined. After speaking, Clara simply leaned back against the wall, her demeanor unchanged.

As if nothing had happened.

Like still water.

“I didn’t just come to visit. There’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

Ryan looked at the girl, who stood there like a scarecrow in an empty field. His lips pressed together, and his stomach churned as if it were being scorched by fire. After a long internal struggle, he finally spoke.

Keeping his true intentions hidden had been eating away at him, and it wasn’t helping Clara either.

Sure, revealing this would shatter the image of him as a kind visitor, but at this point, Ryan didn’t care anymore.

He let out a deep sigh, stood up, and dragged the chair a few steps closer to the bed, trying to be as gentle as possible. He placed the chair in front of Clara, closing the distance between them.

If he could, he would’ve gladly left this task to someone more cold-hearted. He wasn’t cut out for this.

Sometimes, being too empathetic is more of a curse than a blessing.

“You want to ask me if I know anything about my father’s death, don’t you?”

Clara’s voice finally broke the silence. She glanced at Ryan, her tone indifferent, as she brought her hands together in her lap, fingers interlacing.

Her hands were pale—unnaturally so. The kind of pale that comes from illness.

Her knuckles stood out sharply, a sign of malnutrition. Her hands, clasped together like that, must have felt stiff and cold.

“Yes. Your father… he might have been overworked at the construction site, and… there was an accident.”

“I can help you get some compensation, but I need to know a few more details first.”

Ryan wasn’t trying to deceive her, but he couldn’t think of a better way to explain it. Maybe, through this, he could offer her some small help—something to ease his own guilt.

He had some savings he hadn’t touched. It wouldn’t be enough to cure her, but it might help a little.

“Heh…”

But Ryan had forgotten one thing: from the moment he stepped into this room, he had never been in control of how things would unfold.

Clara let out a soft laugh, and for the first time, her puppet-like face showed some emotion. But it was a completely hollow, fake smile—perhaps with a hint of self-mockery.

She didn’t answer Ryan’s question directly. Instead, she tilted her head back as far as she could, exposing her pale, sickly neck.

Ryan’s eyes were drawn to it, just as Clara intended. But when he finally saw what she wanted him to see, his pupils contracted sharply.

Around her neck, on that pale skin, was a faint but unmistakable ring of bruises. If you looked closely, you could even make out the indentations left by fingers. Ryan’s mind flashed back to the sight of Clara’s hands earlier, and the connection between the two became painfully clear.

Should he feel like he was sitting on pins and needles, or something else entirely? Ryan’s gaze froze, and even the chair beneath him seemed to grow unbearably hot. He had no idea how to face her now.

At some point in the past, this quiet, doll-like girl had made the decision to end her own life.

Though she hadn’t succeeded—allowing Ryan to sit here and talk to her today—the marks of that attempt remained, a haunting reminder of her desperation.

“You were wondering earlier, weren’t you? Why the head nurse searched the room so thoroughly when she came in.”

Unlike her earlier fake smile, Clara’s lips now curled into a genuine one as she noticed the guilt and shock on Ryan’s face. Was she… pleased?

Ryan had indeed been curious about that earlier, but now everything was starting to make sense.

He glanced around the room. The foot of the bed, the corners of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the edges of the bedside table—everything was padded with thick cushions. It was the kind of setup you’d expect in a psychiatric ward or a nursery, designed to prevent someone from hurting themselves in a moment of lost control.

On the bedside table, there were a few pieces of fruit, but only things like bananas—easy to eat. There was no sign of apples, the kind that would require peeling. Naturally, there was no fruit knife either.

Ryan’s palms were starting to sweat. The head nurse’s strange behavior earlier now seemed entirely justified. She had been searching for anything Clara could use to harm herself—knives, sharp objects, anything dangerous.

And Clara, always staring out the window… Could it be that she was…

Ryan subtly shifted his body, inching closer to the wall. The call button was right there. If he noticed even the slightest sign of trouble, he wouldn’t hesitate to press it.

Clara didn’t seem to notice Ryan’s small movements. She had already retreated into her own world, her fingers slowly rubbing against each other as she stared down at her hands.

Her voice, slightly hoarse, broke the silence. The ethereal quality that should have belonged to a girl her age was gone, replaced by a heavy, oppressive tone that weighed on Ryan’s chest.

Whether Ryan was there or not, whether he was sitting in that chair or not, Clara would have said these words. She had been holding them in for far too long.

“I’ve been here for a month now. No one’s come to visit me. Not even my father. I haven’t seen him in so long.”

“I thought maybe he was just busy with work. After all, having an illness like this… it’s like burning money every day.”

“I kept hoping he’d come see me one day. But he never did.”

“I also thought maybe the money at home would run out soon, and my treatment here would end. But that didn’t happen either.”

“I asked the nurse if I owed the hospital a lot of money, but the answer I got surprised me. I have no idea how my father managed to come up with so much.”

“And now, it seems like there’s only one explanation left…”

Only one explanation. Was this the cruel reality of poverty?

Ryan sat there, speechless, his heart heavy with the weight of her words.

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