From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL)-Chapter 677: Without Her, Every Place She Touched Is Filled with Despair

Chapter 677: Without Her, Every Place She Touched Is Filled with Despair

Christmas passed like a blurred painting washed in grey.

The mansion, once bright with light and decorated trees, stood quiet beneath the weight of winter. The ornaments still hung from branches in the main hall, but no one bothered to turn the lights on anymore. The scent of pine and cinnamon had faded, replaced by incense and the faint bitterness of grief.

Zhou Ruyan had left clear instructions before she passed.

No grand spectacle. No elaborate ceremony. No wealthy families turning her farewell into a social gathering. No media cameras hovering at the gates to capture the Ramsy family’s tears for profit.

She wanted something small. Closed. Private.

And so it was.

Only close relatives attended. No distant business associates. No politicians offering rehearsed condolences. The gates of Ramsy Mansion remained shut. The outside world was kept firmly at a distance.

But grief, unlike reporters, needed no invitation. It seeped into every hallway, every staircase, every room she had once stepped into.

Micah did not leave his bedroom.

The days after the funeral blended together until time itself felt meaningless. Morning came and went without him noticing. The house staff placed meals outside his door, but the trays returned barely touched. Sometimes not touched at all.

Elina stood outside his room more times than she could count.

She would raise her hand to knock, hesitate, then lower it again. She did not know what to say. What words could mend something like this? She and Jacob watched their son slowly wither before their eyes.

He had always been expressive, smiling easily, teasing, arguing, and complaining dramatically when annoyed. But now he was quiet.

Too quiet.

He did not argue.

He did not protest.

He did not even pretend.

He simply existed.

And that frightened them more than tears would have.

Albert Ramsy worried them even more.

The old patriarch had retreated into himself, as though a part of his soul had been buried with his wife.

He spent most of his time in the indoor garden, Zhou Ruyan’s favourite place in the mansion. It had once been filled with warm lamps, blooming orchids, delicate bonsai trees, and soft trickling water from a stone fountain.

Now, winter had taken its toll.

Despite the heaters installed for the plants, the cold seeped in. The greenery dulled. Some leaves had begun to yellow. The fountain water moved more slowly, almost reluctantly.

Albert sat there for hours in silence. He rarely spoke. The servants reported that he barely touched his tea.

Two generations.

Grandfather and grandson.

Both hollowed out by the same loss.

The atmosphere of the mansion felt heavier with each passing day.

Darcy was staying at the mansion as well.

He moved quietly, almost invisibly, careful not to disturb anyone. He checked on Albert when he could. He tried once to knock on Micah’s door.

There had been no response.

He knew, perhaps better than anyone, why the blow had struck Micah so deeply.

Micah had been there that night. He had been the one who noticed the first snowflake. The one who turned back toward the bed. The last person Zhou Ruyan saw before she closed her eyes. That knowledge clung to him like frostbite.

Elina had eventually consulted a psychologist.

She spoke in hushed tones in her study, afraid the staff might overhear. The doctor explained patiently that grief had stages. Shock. Denial. Pain. Guilt. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Reflection. Loneliness. Eventually acceptance.

Some people moved through them in days.

Some took months.

Some circled the same stage repeatedly.

"He’s in shock," the doctor had said. "Or denial. But eventually it will break."

Elina did not know whether to hope for that break or fear it. Because the blank look in Micah’s eyes terrified her.

In the end, the family resorted to something they hadn’t initially planned.

They called Clyde.

Clyde arrived in the late afternoon, snow crunching softly under his shoes as he walked up the long driveway. He did not bring flowers. He did not bring condolences. He knew Micah would hate both. He came alone.

Elina greeted him personally at the door.

There were faint dark circles under her eyes. She forced a smile. "Thank you for coming."

Clyde nodded quietly. "How is he?"

Elina hesitated. "He’s been cooped up in his room."

That was enough.

Clyde walked upstairs without another word.

The hallway felt longer than usual. The carpet muted his steps. The mansion, once lively and noisy, now felt like a museum of silence.

He stopped in front of Micah’s door. He knocked once. But there was no answer. He tried again. Yet there was no indication of someone acknowledging his attempts.

He turned the knob slowly. It was unlocked. He stepped inside.

The curtains were half drawn. The room was dim, though it was still afternoon. Snowlight filtered in through the gaps, casting pale lines across the floor.

Micah sat on the bed. His back leaned against the headboard. His knees were pulled to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. He stared at nothing in particular, eyes unfocused, as if watching something only he could see.

For a moment, Clyde simply stood there. The sight struck him harder than he expected.

Micah had lost weight. His sweater hung loosely around his shoulders. His cheeks were slightly hollow. His lips pale.

Clyde quietly removed his coat and placed it over a chair. Then he walked to the bed and sat down beside him. He did not speak first. He simply reached out and pulled Micah gently into his arms.

Micah’s body was stiff at first. Cold to the touch.

Clyde buried his face in the crook of Micah’s neck, inhaling the faint familiar scent that lingered there.

After several seconds, Micah moved.

Slowly, he turned and leaned into the embrace, pressing his forehead against Clyde’s shoulder.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

His voice was hoarse, unused. It scraped against his throat.

"They’re worried," Clyde murmured. His hand came up to cradle the back of Micah’s head. "And... so am I."

Micah inhaled deeply, as if grounding himself in the scent of sandalwood and winter air.

"I promised her," he whispered. "I promised I would watch over Grandpa."

His fingers curled into Clyde’s sweater.

"But it hurts too much. Everywhere I go... I see her. The garden. The tea room. The hallway near the stairs. Even the kitchen." His voice cracked. "Look at me," he said bitterly. "I’m a mess. How can I help Grandpa when I can’t even stand on my own?"

Clyde stroked his back slowly. "You’re right," Clyde said softly.

Micah let out a weak scoff.

"You shouldn’t meet him like this," Clyde continued. "You’ve lost weight. Just skin and bones. You look exhausted. If he sees you like this, it only makes him sadder. What about first eating something? Replenishing your energy before meeting your grandpa?"

Micah huffed faintly. "You’re terrible at comforting people."

Clyde allowed the smallest smile. "It’s my first time."

Micah rolled his eyes weakly. "So what? Should I feel honoured then?"

"No," Clyde replied, tightening his arms slightly. "You should be patient with me." His voice lowered. "It hurts my heart to see you like this."

That made Micah go quiet. He turned his face slightly away, biting his lower lip. "You know," he said after a moment, voice trembling, "even if I knew it would happen... even if I’ve lost her countless times before..." His breathing grew uneven. "It doesn’t hurt less. It doesn’t make it bearable."

The words came out fractured.

"In every life... it was different. Sometimes she lived longer. Sometimes she left earlier. I thought maybe this time..." His throat tightened. "Maybe this time I could change it."

Tears slipped down his face.

"She wasn’t even part of the main plot. There was no fixed ending for her. That meant there was hope."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "But she left suddenly."

A sob broke free.

"It makes me wonder... if I could’ve done more. If I missed something. If I could’ve cheered her up more. Stayed longer that night. Not gone to dinner."

Clyde’s own eyes burned. He brushed Micah’s silver hair gently away from his damp cheeks. "Even if you’re the protagonist," Clyde said quietly, "you’re not a god."

Micah’s fingers trembled.

"You can influence people. You can change choices. But you can’t stop death." He pressed his forehead against Micah’s. "You can’t predict the exact moment someone leaves. And you were never meant to carry that responsibility." His voice broke slightly. "So please... don’t blame yourself. It breaks my heart."

That was the final thread.

After a week of silence, of swallowing everything down, Micah shattered. His sobs erupted raw and unrestrained, echoing through the quiet mansion.

He clung to Clyde, fingers gripping desperately, shoulders shaking violently as years of accumulated grief poured out of him.

Downstairs, Elina froze mid-step. Jacob closed his eyes.

Even servants paused where they stood.

The sound carried through the hallways... aching, broken, human.

Elina wiped her tears. Relief mingled with sorrow. The psychologist had been right. The break had come.

Author’s note:

**I cannot believe I will no longer hear your voice,

Or see your moonlit face and graceful form.

For years, you were my steady rock and my companion,

Without you, the place and abode of your essence are filled with despair.***

Never lose hope, because among eight billion people in this world...

***There must be someone,

Who reads your longings from your eyes,

Someone who holds you before the first tear falls,

Someone who knows the ellipsis at the end of your sentences,

Someone who understands you even more than you do,

Someone who, simply by being there, makes up for all that is absent...***