Love's Redemption

Redmption 346



"I'm from the Greenland Park Demolition Permits Office. We posted the demolition notice in the community earlier. There are still some procedures that need to be completed. You're the last one we're waiting for, so please come over right away."

This instantly made my already gloomy mood even worse.

I had known about the demolition procedures for a while, but I kept putting them off.

To me, it felt like if I didn't sign the papers, they couldn't demolish the place, and my home would still be there.

But I couldn't delay things any longer. I still had to sign the papers, and the place would be torn down.

I couldn't be the holdout who delayed the entire demolition process. I didn't want to be the one preventing others from moving into their new homes.

After all, the neighborhood was very old. Who wouldn't want to live in a new community with new houses?

"Okay, I'll come over right now," I agreed promptly.

After hanging up, I took a deep breath and drove to the Demolition Permits Office. There, I signed the papers as they had requested.

Since the deed was in my parents' names, I needed to provide their death and cremation certificates. Only then could I sign and inherit the property.

I understood these were normal procedures, but I found it to be quite brutal.

My parents had been gone for over ten years, but I never canceled their registrations. In my heart, as long as our three names were together, they hadn't really left me.

But now, I had to go through the process of closing their records, erasing their traces from this world.

This cruelty was raw and painful for me.

Yet, despite the grief and sorrow, I had no choice but to do it.

I went to the household registration office. The clerk said I needed a death report from the Accident Investigation Center to get my parents' death certificate and proof of record closure.

I had no choice but to return to the

department where I had retrieved the records of my parents' car accident This time, unlike the last didn't encounter any difficulties. But the person still asked me, "It's been sotong since the accident. Why are you only doing this now?

My throat tightened. "Because I didn't want to."

He glanced at me, seeming to find my reply whimsical, but didn't press the issue. He opened his laptop, checked on the accident from that year, then turned his attention back

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I sensed that something was off. "Is there a problem? Or do I need to provide any additional documents?"

"No. There's no need," he replied, looking back at the screen and starting to type on the keyboard.

7

As the printer hummed, a warm sheet of paper emerged, followed by a freshly stamped seal. The paper was handed to me.

"Take a look," he reminded me.

My eyes fell on the black text, reading the report confirming death at the scene. My heart sank, a heavy weight settling in my chest.

I hadn't been at the scene that year. Yet, having seen the accident record, it was as if I had experienced it firsthand.

My eyes were focused on the stark contrast of black ink on white paper. But my mind was consumed by the haunting image of my parents' accident. My body convulsed with each ragged breath.

I felt like I was drowning, trapped in a suffocating cage. Unable to bear it any longer, I turned and rushed toward the door.

But the person behind me called out, “Wait a moment."

I had to bring myself to a halt and look at him. My mouth was too parched to ask what he wanted, so I looked at him with questioning eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked, staring at my face.

I must have looked terrible for him to ask that.

I shook my head slightly, trying to steady my breathing. He had already stood up and was walking toward me. “Please leave your contact information."