Chapter 3

Iris

Vanessa was having another sleepless night—the third time this week. I found her sitting on her bed, silver hair soft in the moonlight.

"Dear, I can't sleep," she said. "I keep thinking about William, about when we were young."

William was her late husband, Atlas's grandfather.

"Would you like to sit in the living room? I could make some chamomile tea," I suggested.

She nodded. "Are those old photo albums still around? I'd like to see what we used to look like."

I helped her to the living room and turned on a soft lamp. Finding the albums in the cabinet by the fireplace, I handed them to her carefully.

Vanessa's fingers traced the yellowed photographs, her eyes suddenly becoming clear.

"This is from my wedding with William." She pointed to a black and white photo. "Look how handsome he was. He would wait for me outside the flower shop every day, too nervous to speak."

I smiled. "That sounds romantic."

"Men were more reserved then. But Atlas is like his grandfather—caring desperately but never saying it." She turned the page. "He used to visit us often, especially after his father remarried. That woman wasn't good to him, but he never complained."

Just then, I heard footsteps.

Atlas stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, clearly just returned from work. His hair was disheveled, shirt sleeves rolled up—he looked exhausted.

"Vanessa?" His voice was soft. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Atlas!" She brightened immediately. "Come here, I'm showing Iris our old photos."

He hesitated, then sat across from us, maintaining distance.

"This is your seventh birthday," Vanessa showed me a color photo. "Look how cute he was."

The little Atlas was adorable, but already had wariness in his eyes.

"Back then I thought I'd have many grandchildren," Vanessa continued. "But Atlas focuses only on work."

An awkward silence filled the air.

"My grandfather also loved old photos before he passed," I said, changing the subject. "He said they reminded people of beautiful times."

"What was he like?" Vanessa asked.

"Very gentle. When he was sick, I sat with him daily. The doctor said he might not last a month, but he held on for six months."

"Why?" Atlas suddenly asked.

"Because he felt loved. He knew we were all there with him."

"Love really can create miracles," Vanessa said softly. "William was peaceful when he passed because he knew I would take good care of Atlas."

"But I didn't." Atlas's voice filled with pain. "I was too busy with work. I neglected your needs."

"It's not too late to start now," I said gently. "Alzheimer's is gradual—with proper care, we can maintain her quality of life longer."

"Really?"

I opened my care record. "Through cognitive training, medication adjustments, and emotional support—like this reminiscence therapy—we can slow progression."

Atlas was silent for a long time. "I thought working and earning money was the best care. But she needs my time."

"You're not uncaring. You just don't know how to express it."

Vanessa had dozed off, the album sliding onto her lap.

"I'll take her back," Atlas said, gently helping his grandmother up.

Watching him carefully support Vanessa, I understood something. This seemingly cold man was filled with fear of loss, using work and distance to protect himself.

Ten minutes later, Atlas returned. I was heading to the kitchen when he called out.

"Wait. Thank you for tonight. I haven't seen her this happy in a long time."

"It's what I should do. She loves you very much—always worried you work too hard."

Atlas smiled bitterly. "I've never been good at expressing emotions."

"It can be learned. What matters is you're willing to try."

He looked at me with something I'd never seen before—vulnerability mixed with gratitude.

"You must be tired working so late," I said, turning toward the kitchen. "Let me get you something."

"You don't have to—"

"This stuff is bad for your body." I interrupted, looking through the refrigerator. "Long hours and irregular eating—your stomach must be terrible."

I quickly made a sandwich and brewed coffee. When I handed him the warm food, Atlas was stunned.

"I..." His voice was quiet. "No one's ever done anything like this for me."

'No one has ever prepared food for him after working late?'

"Eat while it's warm," I sat across from him. "Tomorrow we'll discuss Vanessa's care plan."

"Why?" Atlas asked suddenly. "Why are you so kind to us? What you're doing goes beyond the contract."

I paused. This question I'd asked myself many times.

I replied, "Maybe because I understand losing someone important, then working desperately to prove something, but deep down just being afraid of losing again."

Atlas said, "You've lost someone important too?"

"My parents died in a car accident when I was sixteen. After that it was just Reed and me." I answered calmly. "So I understand your feelings about Vanessa."

The room fell quiet.

"Thank you," Atlas said, his voice soft but sincere.

I nodded and stood to leave.

"Iris."

I turned back.

"Good night."

"Good night, Atlas."

Back in my room, I realized how fast my heart was beating. Tonight's Atlas was completely different—beneath the cold pretense was a soul longing to be understood.

'But is this really okay?' I thought of Reed's request to find Atlas's "weaknesses." But tonight's Atlas wasn't the "ruthless" person Reed described.

The next morning, I found a care record book on my desk—not mine, but one I'd left in the living room. Atlas must have brought it to my room.

When I flipped to the last pages, my heart skipped. Besides Vanessa's records, I had noted observations about Atlas: his schedule, stress levels, eating habits, emotional changes.

On the last page, I'd written:

[Atlas actually loves Vanessa very much, he just doesn't know how to express it.]

Did he see this?