Come and Cry at My Funeral - Chapter 209
Everlasting star
The painter, mindful of Freesia’s condition, worked quickly to complete the preliminary sketch.
Although Freesia didn’t have much knowledge of art, even she could tell the sketch looked impressive.
The colors hadn’t been added yet, but the lightly layered lines captured both her and Izar’s features with remarkable accuracy.
‘Is that how I appear to others?’
Soft, pink lips curved gently upward.
A delicate face with light green eyes carrying a subtle glow. The painter had added a blush of happiness to her cheeks, as if it were real.
Gone was the ragged shepherd girl weighed down by life’s burdens. In her place was a demure noble bride.
If she were being generous, she might even call herself pretty.
‘Isn’t this a little too idealized?’
Izar, on the other hand, had been sketched exactly as he appeared. However, his gaze, which should have been fixed straight ahead, was directed at her as she sat in the chair.
The expression on the man in the portrait was composed and without a smile, but something about his eyes unsettled Freesia.
Those were the eyes of someone unhappy.
She knew that look better than anyone—she had worn it herself during the three years her ‘husband’ had neglected her.
The painter must have mistaken Izar’s gaze for that of a groom deeply captivated by his bride.
“…Are you satisfied with how it looks so far?”
After the painter stepped away, Izar’s familiar voice broke the silence from behind her.
Freesia murmured without turning to face him, trying to keep her composure.
“Why didn’t you tell him to remove the scar?”
“Is it so strange to leave things as they are?”
“……”
Who leaves a scar on their face in an official portrait?
Even the painter had cautiously suggested, ‘This can be covered during the coloring process,’ but Izar had firmly opposed the idea.
〈Leave it as is.〉
Was he trying to keep that scar as a constant reminder of his guilt? That must be why he insisted it remain in the portrait.
Freesia wanted to twist her thoughts to make Izar seem like a bad person, but once her resolve faltered, those sharp, biting thoughts wouldn’t come easily. The frustration and bitterness of that failure gnawed at her.
‘Why is it… that I can’t keep hating him?’
She had vowed to spend her remaining days tormenting him as much as possible before her death. So why did that resolve keep crumbling like dampened clay?
She had told him outright that she hated him. So why didn’t his presence beside her as they looked at the portrait feel unpleasant?
Why?
Freesia forced herself to focus on the painting, ignoring the warmth emanating from Izar’s presence.
‘At least the woman in the painting looks happy.’
Did the painter see her as a blushing bride? Was that expression a figment of his imagination, or had Freesia momentarily fooled even herself?
And that awkwardly curved arm…
‘Didn’t he say he’d fill that space with a bouquet if nothing else?’
But if the baby were safely born, that spot would be filled with a child wrapped in lace blankets.
An unwanted child.
A child Freesia had repeatedly told herself she couldn’t love—a tool to hurt Izar.
And yet, at one time, Freesia had wanted this child in this life.
She had longed to touch its tiny fingers and toes, wondering which features it might inherit from its parents.
Even if it wasn’t an heir but a daughter… she had been genuinely happy at the thought of a future where the child, unlike her, wouldn’t have to toil as a shepherd but would grow up loved in the duchy.
“The portrait should be complete by spring.”
“……”
“Are you looking forward to it?”
Without warning, Izar took her hand in his, threading their fingers together.
Her lips moved faintly, silently mouthing words she wanted to say.
‘You’re cunning.’
‘You’re truly, truly a terrible person.’
‘You don’t believe anything I’ve said to you.’
‘And yet you want me to cling to life, don’t you…?’
Freesia bit her lower lip to keep those words from escaping.
What was it about that scar beneath his eye that had made her agree to this portrait in the first place?
Hadn’t she anticipated how much this would hurt?
‘Lie to me.’
Izar was still waiting for her response. After her recent scare, she had caused enough of a scene. She needed to prove she was stable now.
“…I’m looking forward to it.”
The baby stirred softly within her, like tiny bubbles rising from the depths of a lake.
“When the weather warms up, when the time comes… I look forward to seeing this baby’s face added to the painting.”
Her voice caught in her throat, a tangled mix of truth and lies. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at Izar.
‘I never want to forgive you.’
Yet, why.
Why did Izar keep trying to change?
Now he was painstakingly trying to gather up his mistakes, even behaving like a ‘husband’ who wanted to see the child of a marriage that didn’t exist.
And yet he didn’t complain about being blamed for mistakes that weren’t his.
Izar, who had so easily erased her from the sacred marriage record, was also the same man who had hung a white ribbon and silver bell on the thorn bush.
Even though she wished the night sky would remain eternally dark without stars, something was shifting—changing—and it hurt.
Now, of all times.
