A Past in Chains

The glass door of the Civil Affairs Bureau slid open, letting in a blast of cold air. I tightened my scarf again, my fingertips brushing the uneven scar on my wrist. Evan Silva followed behind me, his leather shoes making a heavy, dull sound on the marble floor. The staff glanced up at us, their eyes full of the usual scrutiny. "Is the divorce agreement ready?" I pulled the documents out of my bag, the edges of the paper slightly wrinkled from my grip. Evan's gaze fell on my hands, pausing for two seconds. I ignored him and slid the agreement across to the staff member. "Regarding the property division," I said steadily, "houses, cars, the savings, and half of Silva Group's shares all go to me." Evan Silva suddenly looked up, his brow furrowed. "Rachel, you..." "I'm giving up custody of the children." I cut him off, my gaze steady without a hint of hesitation. He froze, clearly not expecting me to say that. After all these years, he was probably used to me always bending over backward. The staff handed me the pen, and I signed first. The tip of the pen scraped across the paper with a rustling sound, as if marking the final period on this marriage. Evan Silva stared at the agreement for a long moment, hesitating with his finger over the signature line. I waited patiently, my fingertips unconsciously tracing the scar on my wrist. Those scars overlapped, the clearest marks of these years. Finally, he picked up the pen and signed his name. The handwriting was bold and elegant, just like when he proposed back then. But now, it only felt ironic. The staff handed over the divorce certificate, a red booklet glaringly bright. As I walked out of the Civil Affairs Bureau, Evan Silva called after me. "Rachel," his voice was hoarse, "I can't give you the shares. Silva Group is my father's lifelong work." My footsteps didn't stop; I just turned my head to look at him. "But you'll always be Selena and Robbie's mom," he said, "If you ever have trouble, just reach out to me anytime." He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. I took it, clutching it in my hand. The card's lettering was embossed in gold, showing his name and contact details. I nodded without a word and turned to leave. I walked to the corner, made sure he couldn't see me, then tossed the card into the trash can. The wind swirled the card around inside the trash can. In this life, I never want to see Evan Silva again. The scar on my wrist ached faintly, like a reminder that the wounds this marriage inflicted will never fade. I tightened my scarf and walked in the opposite direction. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, falling on me, but it couldn't thaw the chill deep in my heart. From now on, I'll have to walk my own path. No Evan Silva, no Silva family — just me. Thinking that, my steps grew lighter. The streets buzzed with traffic and noise, yet I felt an overwhelming calm, like finally waking up from a long nightmare. I raised my hand to touch my cheek—no tears. The tears that needed to fall had long since dried up over countless late nights. There was a coffee shop ahead; I went inside and ordered a cup of hot coffee. The aroma of the coffee spread, chasing away the chill on my skin. I stared out the window as pedestrians hurried by, each with their own destination. But my destination was far from here—to start a new life. The scars on my wrist were still there, but I knew they'd fade away over time, just like this unbearable marriage that time would eventually bury. I took a sip of coffee, warmth sliding from my throat down to my heart. It feels good. I'm finally free.