"Grandmother, I have decided to return to Bordeaux to take over the winery."

Far away in the south of France, the elderly woman’s voice trembled with ill-concealed excitement upon finally hearing her granddaughter relent. "Nora, you’ve finally come to your senses! God bless us. Your grandfather and I will have your room prepared immediately. In about a month, just in time for the grape harvest, we shall be reunited."

In stark contrast to her grandmother’s sun-drenched tone, Nora’s voice was as calm and stagnant as a pool of dead water.

"Alright."

After hanging up, Nora sat alone in the pitch-black living room. Outside the window lay the sprawling, glittering nightscape of Los Angeles; the neon lights cast shadows across her face, yet failed to penetrate the dimness of her eyes.

Forty minutes later, the fingerprint lock on the apartment door let out a soft beep.

Nora did not go to the entryway to take his guitar case as she usually did. Instead, she sat quietly, watching Elias walk into the living room and casually flick on the switch for the expensive crystal chandelier.

Having changed his shoes, Elias saw Nora curled up in the single armchair and frowned slightly. "Why aren't you asleep yet?"

"I was waiting for you. Didn't you see the text I sent you?"

There was no discernible emotion in Nora’s tone.

Elias, however, seemed somewhat absent-minded. He tossed out a casual lie: "There was a glitch with the equipment in the recording studio. We were debugging it the whole time; I didn't get a chance to look at my phone."

With that, he unbuttoned his collar and walked straight toward the bathroom, too lazy to even glance back to see if she believed him.

Before long, the sound of rushing water emerged from the bathroom. Meanwhile, the phone he had carelessly tossed onto the rug beside the sofa suddenly lit up and vibrated twice.

Nora recalled the scene she had witnessed at the entrance of the record label earlier that day. The fingers resting on her knees curled slightly.

She leaned over and picked up the phone, entering the passcode she knew by heart—it was the date he became famous.

The message was from a woman saved as "Chloe," her profile picture a languid Persian cat.

"Elias, the wine tonight was exquisite. Thank you!"

"I’ve arrived home safely. Goodnight."

Staring at the intimate, slightly ambiguous tone, Nora expressionlessly scrolled up to view the chat history from the previous night.

"Tomorrow is your birthday. I’ve prepared a surprise for you."

"Meet at the old place."

These two messages had been replied to instantly.

Last night, Elias had lied to her, claiming the company had an emergency meeting, and had stayed out all night.

It turned out he had gone to keep his appointment with "Chloe."

Nora’s eyes went vacant for a moment before she clicked on the pinned conversation at the top, labeled "Nora."

From reminding him to drink honey water for his throat, to asking what he wanted for dinner, to sharing interesting graffiti she saw on the street—the screen was densely packed with green bubbles sent by her.

And he had replied with only a cold, solitary "Mm."

In this relationship, she, the "Golden Lyricist" who had stood by his side for five years, appeared so humble it was laughable.

Perhaps because her heart was already dead, in this moment, Nora did not feel the heart-wrenching pain she had anticipated.

She gently placed the phone back where it was, her thoughts drifting back five years.

Back then, Elias was just a destitute singer performing in underground passageways. Though he possessed a voice kissed by God, he remained obscure due to a lack of good original material.

Captivated by his singing, Nora had defied her family’s opposition and resolutely stayed in Los Angeles to become his exclusive songwriter.

Over these five years, she had written over a hundred songs for him, pouring her heart and soul into every one. Relying on these songs, Elias had walked from the subway tunnels to the Grammy stage, becoming a scorching hot superstar in the music world.

But he was naturally arrogant and solitary. To the public, he claimed his inspiration came from loneliness, never once acknowledging Nora’s existence.

Nora thought he did it for his career, so she chose to endure.

Until recently, when she was helping him organize his cloud files, she accidentally discovered an encrypted album containing thousands of photos of the same woman...

It was Chloe, a popular fashion blogger, and also Elias’s first love.

Years ago, Chloe had spurned Elias for being poor and turned around to marry a wealthy businessman. Elias had been in agony; it was Nora who accompanied him through those darkest days.

Now that Chloe was divorced and back in the country, Elias’s silent heart seemed to have reignited from the ashes.

Someone had told Nora that the reason Elias never went public with her was that he always kept a place in his heart for Chloe.

Nora had once thought that five years of companionship would be enough to melt a glacier.

But the moment she learned of Chloe’s return, the Nora who had never once complained of fatigue after countless all-nighters in the studio felt a profound exhaustion for the first time.

She no longer wanted to be the ghostwriter hiding in the shadows.

She no longer wanted to wait for a man who would never look back at her.

Finally, Nora decided to hide it from Elias and disappear completely.

Nora’s fingertip hovered over the cold screen, that small patch of light stinging her eyes until they burned.

The water in the bathroom continued to rush, like white noise cutting off reality, wrapping her in this cramped space filled with lies.

As if possessed, she did not exit the interface but continued to scroll up.

The chat history scrolled back frantically, stopping at a late night one week ago.

That day, Elias had brought home the trophy for Singer-Songwriter of the Year and had gotten drunk at the celebration party. When Nora went to pick him up, he had pushed her in front of everyone, causing her to hit a hard marble pillar. The bruise had yet to fade.

On the screen, Chloe had sent a candid photo.

In the photo, Nora was crouching on the ground picking up the jacket Elias had dropped, her back hunched, looking like a lowly scavenger.

Chloe: "Look who this is. Your 'Muse'? This posture looks just like a stray dog wagging its tail begging for pity."

Elias had replied with a laughing emoji.

"Don't make me sick, Chloe. What Muse? She's just a typewriter that knows how to rhyme."

Nora stared at that line of text, her breathing stalling for a second, her lungs feeling as if they were being repeatedly sawed by a rusty, dull blade.

So in his eyes, five years of spilling her heart’s blood was nothing more than mechanical typing.

Chloe didn't seem intended to drop the subject: "Since you hate her so much, why keep her? The way she looks at you is so sticky, I can't stand it."

Elias: "Just bear with it, baby. The new album still needs a few lead singles. You know, even though this woman is as boring as a glass of plain boiled water, she really is useful when it comes to writing lyrics. Once she finishes this batch of songs, I’ll tell her to get lost."

"Plain boiled water."

Nora silently chewed on this word, the corners of her mouth twitching, yet failing to form a smile.

This was his evaluation of her.

Tasteless, cheap, readily available, yet demanded as a matter of course whenever he was thirsty.

The sound of water in the bathroom stopped abruptly.

Nora’s fingers trembled violently, the phone nearly slipping from her grasp.

She quickly turned off the screen, placed the phone back in its original position, adjusted her sitting posture, and let her stiff back sink into the soft sofa once more.

Yet the chill seeping from her very bones could not be suppressed.

It turned out that her waiting was a prison sentence, her devotion was cheap labor, and her very existence was a suffocating mistake to him.

The doorknob turned, and warm, moist steam surged out, accompanied by the scent of body wash.