05 Who's cooking fish?

Gemma's POV.

I never expected to meet Mary's family in this lifetime.

Before the cornea transplant surgery, the nurse told me about Mary's story. She was in a car accident on a snowy night, and by the time the ambulance arrived, she was already dead, crushed like a piece of paper in the flattened car.

I couldn't imagine that scene. Human bodies are thick with fat and bones are so hard—how much force would it take to crush a person like that?

The pain in her final moments must have been unimaginable.

That's when I couldn't help but ask for Mary's name. Technically, the identities of donors and recipients are supposed to remain confidential, but Mary's name was so common that the nurse told me.

Later, I also learned that Mary was around my age.

By the time I had the surgery, I had already been in New York for a while, and I hadn't told my parents about everything that had happened to me.

But what about Mary's parents? Their daughter died. Maybe just the day before, she was calling out "Mom" and "Dad," and the next day she was lying in a morgue, her body so shattered that even the mortician couldn't piece her back together.

So I thought, the cornea transplanted into my eye must be the only thing left of their daughter in this world.

I asked the nurse to convey to them that I would be happy to meet them if they wanted to.

But Mary's parents refused. They were still alive and had to find a way to keep going. After suffering such a great trauma, people instinctively try to block out everything related to it, so I later heard they had left the United States.

I never expected them to suddenly appear.

"We don't mean any harm," the man looks at me and explaines, "We're actually planning to adopt a child and start a new life. But before that, we want to know how Mary is doing—especially Mary's mother."

I press my lips together and look at the woman in the car, hiding her face with long hair. Then I look at the man in front of me. He must be a good father because his smile is warm, radiating a sense of kindness. Yet when he mentions Mary, there is still a faint sadness in his eyes.

The man seems to worry I won't believe him, so he takes out his wallet and shows me his driver's license and work ID. "I'll leave my driver's license with you. Would you join us for dinner?"

I look down at his ID. Prof. Ramos. A university professor.

"So Mary's full name is Mary Ramos?" I ask.

He hesitates for a moment, then smiles. "Yes."

I hand back the ID to Mr. Ramos and smile, "I'd be happy to have dinner with you."

Mrs. Ramos is sitting in the passenger seat. From the moment I walk over to the car until I stand beside it, she hasn't looked directly at me. Mr. Ramos taps on the car window, and she finally glances out, her expression cold and somewhat reserved.

"Mrs. Ramos," I call to her with a smile.

She remains stiff, nodding slightly before looking straight ahead again. But I can see a brief glimmer of tears in her eyes. Because a part of her daughter is inside me, it's a mother's instinct.

I open the back door and get in, but I can't help thinking that Mary must be a beautiful girl because both her parents have such well-defined features, like works of art.

At a red light, my eyes meet Mrs. Ramos's in the rearview mirror. I smile, and she once again coldly looks away.

"What would you like to eat?" Mr. Ramos starts the car and asks cheerfully.

Mrs. Ramos doesn't say anything, and I realize he's asking me, so I say, "I'm fine with anything. You can decide."

Mr. Ramos's eyes crinkle with a smile. "Since we're taking a kid out to eat, of course, we should prioritize the kid's preferences."

I smile. He and my parents are almost the same age, and I like that he calls me a kid.

"There's a famous restaurant nearby called New Delhi," I say.

Mr. Ramos nods, "Indian food? Then let's have Tandoori chicken."

There is a lot of traffic on the road, so Mr. Ramos chats with me, asking about my job, my health, and my eyes.

When I say, "It's adjusting well, and so far, there's been no negative reaction," Mrs. Ramos can't help but slightly turn her head, her long neck forming a cautious curve.

We arrive at the restaurant. Mr. Ramos is very attentive to serve me food, but I don't eat much. Mrs. Ramos sits across from me, her expression neutral, her eyes fixed on mine.

When I'm about half full, I put down my fork.

"Do you always eat so little?" Mrs. Ramos finally speaks, but her tone is strange and abrupt.

I wipe my mouth and reply, "I don't have a big appetite."

"No wonder you're so thin. You're working hard now, so you should eat more," Mr. Ramos says.

I smile but don't say anything, just look into Mrs. Ramos's eyes and say, "Ma'am, Mary's cornea is in my right eye."

They both stop what they're doing simultaneously.

Mrs. Ramos freezes for a moment, her eyes quickly turning red. She exchanges a glance with Mr. Ramos, and then, overwhelmed, she sets down her fork. I stand up and move to her side, saying gently, "Take a look. It's still alive and well."

I've never been a mother, so I can't fully understand the feelings of a mother who has lost her daughter.

But it's clearly a heavy emotion, so much so that even though her daughter has been gone from this world for a long time, she's still trapped in that moment. For her, the world has paused when her daughter passed away.

So when Mrs. Ramos buries her head in my chest, crying uncontrollably, I watch her trembling shoulders with compassion and gently hold her.

Mr. Ramos looks up at me, gently strokes his wife's thin shoulders, and suddenly asks, "Did it hurt during the surgery?"

I smile lightly and say, "No, it didn't hurt. I was under anesthesia."

After we leave the restaurant, they drive me home. Mr. Ramos notices the tear-stained front of my shirt and offers me his scarf, which I don't refuse.

I watch them leave from the entrance of the complex, still wrapped in Mr. Ramos's scarf, and suddenly I think of my father.

It's already dark, so he should be home by now. My father once went night fishing and came back covered in bites from bugs, and my mom scolded him for a week.

Now he only fishes during the day.

I wander aimlessly around the complex, looking up at the dark windows of my apartment. There's no parent who doesn't love their child. I rarely go home—my parents must worry about me too, right?

While lost in thought, I see a security guard approaching with a flashlight in the distance.

He shines the light in my direction, recognizes me, and hurries over.

He stops in front of me, hands on his knees, panting. "Miss Dawson, why don't you answer the phone?"

I'm startled and take out my phone, realizing that it's full of missed calls and messages, all from the property management.

"Sorry, I had my phone on silent."

Before going to the restaurant with Mary's parents, I had silenced my phone.

The guard lifts one arm and points toward my apartment, "Your place is leaking—water's dripping down to the floor below. You should go check it out."

I immediately rush toward my apartment.

By the time I reach the fourth-floor hallway, I see water already seeping out from under my door. I unlock the door and step inside to find the floor completely covered in water—the place looks like a lake.

I rush to the bathroom to shut off the water valve and then go to rescue my favorite pair of high heels by the entrance. I don't wear heels often, but I do for the occasional evening event, so I splurged on a pair of expensive Dior slingback.

They've always been on the bottom shelf of my shoe cabinet, and by the time I pull them out, the soles have already swollen, and the logo is barely visible.

I dry the shoes with a towel and place them on the highest part of the balcony before going to save the second most precious item in my living room—my rug.

The rug isn't expensive, but it's a limited edition from McDonald's. I remember eating Happy Meals for a month just to get it.

After that, I start scooping water into a bucket and dumping it down the bathroom sink. Then I mop the floor and clean the water-soaked furniture.

After going through this entire process, I'm so exhausted that I fall asleep on my bed.

Because I didn't clean thoroughly, I continue the next day, sorting out three large garbage bags.

Each bag is heavy, so I take three trips downstairs. By the time I press the elevator button for the last time, ready to go back up, I'm sweating from my forehead to my back.

Breathing heavily, I reach for the elevator button, only to find another hand doing the same.

I turn my head and am surprised to see my boss.

"Good morning," I say.

On weekends, Luke doesn't wear his gold-rimmed glasses, and his style is more casual—honestly, he looks even more hot.

He's holding a package, and after a brief glance at me with his usual cool eyes, he asks, "The security guard mentioned you had a problem with your pipes. Is it fixed?"

The elevator arrives.

"Not yet," I reply, stepping into the elevator.

So now I can't shower, can't use the bathroom, and can't cook.

Luke steps into the elevator too and presses the button for the fourth floor.

I don't know if it's just my imagination, but I think I catch a faint hint of a mocking smile at the corner of his mouth when I answer him.

So I straighten my back, determined not to let him see my disheveled state.

The elevator stops on the fourth floor, and I follow Luke out. Just as I'm about to say goodbye to my boss, trying to maintain my composure, my stomach suddenly growls.

I admit, the real reason is that I spent the whole day mopping the floor and only ate two slices of bread; but what actually embarrasses me is the smell of stewed fish wafting through the hallway.

It's clear that Luke hears it too.

He stops , turns to look at me, and says, "You're hungry."

"I'm not," I instinctively deny.

Then my stomach growls again.

Luke glances at my stomach, then back at me, and the smile on his face widens.

When one reaches a certain level of embarrassment, dignity no longer matters. I take a deep breath and try to casually ask, "Okay—who's cooking the fish?"

It's a ridiculous question since there are only two of us living on this floor.

Luke's smile broadens a bit more. "Me."

He opens the door, and the smell intensifies. My stomach starts to churn and growl louder.

I swallow, craning my neck to peek inside his apartment. "So, boss—can I—join you for lunch?"

Luke's smile is warm enough, except for the evil glint in his eyes. He leans against the doorframe, rubbing his ear. "I seem to recall someone saying my heart is as small as a soybean."

I freeze on the spot.

How long ago was that?

Is he the type who keeps a grudge journal, writing down every slight against him?

But I decide to play dumb. "Hmm? Who? Who would dare say such a thing?"

Luke tilts his head, looking at me with an amused expression, clearly enjoying the show.

I despise myself for the lack of dignity at this moment, but since I was the one who asked to eat at his place, it's as if one knee is already on the ground, so kneeling the other one isn't so difficult.

Without blinking, I say, "My boss is the most generous person in the world."

"Kind."

"Warm-hearted."

"Positive and sweet."

I praise him shamelessly as the smell of the stew grows stronger.

Finally, Luke seems satisfied. He smiles, gestures with his hand in an inviting manner, and says, "Come in."