Love Can Give Birth to Greatness

The old man sat in a wicker chair outside the manor cottage, dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. In his hand, he held a rough wooden carving—a little boy sitting on his mother's shoulders. The workmanship was simple, yet it radiated a profound tenderness.

"We fell in love," he said in a low voice, as though it had traveled across time. "Like all young lovers, we swore eternal vows."

Ian listened quietly, expecting a tragedy of forced separation.

But the old man's next words made his heart jolt. Ian froze completely, his mind seeming to crash for several seconds before it barely managed to process this utterly unexpected information.

M-Married? And they even had a son?

Every tragic possibility he had imagined, every obstacle, every heartrending prelude to separation, had somehow led to a... happy and complete ending? Then where had the unforgettable pain on Musa's face, pain so intense it nearly seemed tangible, come from? It couldn't possibly have all been leading up to nothing more than showing off their love, could it?

Musa paid no attention to Ian's stunned expression.

The strange look on his face gradually gave way to deep recollection, mixed with sweetness and piercing pain. His sunken eyes gazed into the void, as though they had pierced through the curtain of time.

And seen the distant past.

"My wife."

The old man's voice became exceptionally gentle, as though he feared disturbing the light and shadows in his memories. "She was like the toughest thorn flower in the desert—beautiful, yet prickly, forever curious about the unknown. Our son, whom we called Little Som, inherited everything from his mother—her brilliant smile and a heart that could never be bound, always yearning for adventure."

He sighed softly, that sigh brimming with endless affection and a touch of helplessness.