Chapter 2

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting dappled shadows on the wooden floor. I stood in the center of the studio, my gaze sweeping over every painting hung on the walls.

That seascape reminded me of the Maldives three years ago, when Dylan first took me to see the ocean. He had persistently written "I love you" in the sand, then pointed at the sea and signed: "Look, this is my heart, forever surging for you."

My fingertips gently brushed over the blue on the canvas, as if I could still feel the warmth of the sea breeze that day.

Now, this little boat was about to sail toward a fractured abyss.

I opened my laptop and began organizing my digital footprint.

Photos of us embracing flashed across the screen: beneath the Eiffel Tower, on a bench in Central Park, on a street dusted with the first snow. In every photo, Dylan was signing "I love you." How ironic—those silent vows had now become glaring lies.

When I pressed the delete key, I felt my heart shattering piece by piece.

Late at night, I locked the studio door and dialed the encrypted number.

"Is the body double ready?"

"In position. Even that little mole behind your ear has been perfectly replicated."

"The death certificate?"

"Will arrive during tomorrow's wedding. All arrangements have been taken care of."

I hung up and began packing the paintings. I lingered longest over "Silent Love"—the painting depicted Dylan teaching me to understand music. He had placed my hand on a speaker and signed: "This is rhythm, this is melody."

His eyes had been so focused and tender then, as if I were his entire world.

Now, that entire world was collapsing.

Just as I was wavering in my resolve, softened by these memories, a text from an unknown number invaded my phone.

"Know why he doesn't care that the music was changed? Because he said you'll never understand what real music is anyway."

I instantly guessed who this message was from.

I closed my eyes, remembering the first time Dylan played "Silent Love" for me. He had pressed my palm against his throat, letting me feel the vibration of his vocal cords, teaching me to read the lyrics stroke by stroke: "You are the most beautiful melody in my life."

How laughable—now this melody had been casually replaced, just like my place in his heart.

Another text arrived: "He spent last night at my place. Said you could never give him the passion he wants."

My fingers trembled slightly as I darkened the screen.

At that moment, Dylan pushed open the door and signed: "Darling, time to get ready for bed."

He walked over and embraced me from behind, writing in my palm: "On the wedding day, I have a surprise for you."

I held back my tears and wrote in his palm: "Whatever happens, please remember me in this moment."

He tenderly kissed my hair, completely unaware that the bride in his arms was planning a permanent farewell.

When I did a final check of my wedding dress, I felt a note at the bottom of the jewelry box. It was Dylan's handwriting: "To my eternal bride—even if the world is silent, our love will make the loudest sound."

The note slipped from my fingers, just like our love that was about to fade away.

The bride in the mirror was still beautiful, yet already prepared to disappear forever. And Dylan would never know that his beloved deaf-mute bride had actually heard everything—including the sound of love shattering.