Sylvia Swanson was an intern assistant who'd joined the company just six months before the fire. In my previous life, she'd been one of the employees who perished. My only impression of her had been a vague sadness at a life cut short.
At the funeral, I'd asked Eugene to light a stick of incense on my behalf.
I never knew. My husband's greatest regret—the thing that haunted him across a lifetime—was that he hadn't saved her.
How long had they been involved? When did it start?
My mind was still reeling when an employee's panicked shout cut through the chaos:
"Mr. Henson, you made it out! But where's Rose Fox? She heard you were trapped inside and ran straight into the fire to find you!"
The joy drained from Eugene's face. His whole body went rigid.
Only then did he remember me—the woman who'd been crippled saving his life in their last life.
Only then did it hit him that the person he'd shoved aside, the one who'd nearly fallen into the fire, was me.
"Rose!" His voice cracked, raw and hoarse. He scrambled to his feet.
He turned around and met my eyes.
Empty. Hollow. Stripped of everything.
He rushed over in three strides, reaching out to check my burns.
"Are you okay? I'm sorry, I—"