Two years had passed since our divorce, and I thought I had buried everything. Yet the scars remained—arguments that never found resolution, pride too heavy to set down.

I blamed her for being cold, she blamed me for being careless. After six years together, it ended with two signatures on a sheet of paper, strangers pretending not to hurt.

Since then, I lived in isolation. Work became my shield, friends’ invitations my excuses. Whenever old memories surfaced, I pushed them back with one reminder: “She has nothing to do with me anymore.”

But fate had other plans.

One crowded evening, stuck at a red light, I heard panicked shouts:

“Someone’s down! That car hit hard!”

Curiosity made me look up—then my world froze. A woman lay on the asphalt, blood trickling from her forehead.

And that woman… was my ex-wife.

Her tangled hair, her trembling eyes in pain—it all shattered me. Memories of her smile, her gentle hands, the warmth of meals she once cooked came rushing back. My grip tightened on the wheel. A storm of voices screamed inside:

“Go help her, she was once your wife!”

“No, she left you. She’s nothing to you now.”

The light turned green. I pressed the gas and left her behind. In the mirror, I saw strangers surround her, and my chest burned with guilt.

I told myself: “It’s not your concern.”

But minutes later, my car stopped—right in front of a hospital. My hands trembled. Why had I come here? Perhaps my heart already knew the truth: I couldn’t abandon her.

Overcome with regret, I turned back. But by the time I arrived, she was gone. A passerby told me, “They’ve taken her to the hospital.”