Cut it off, then part ways.

A familiar servant said that Mr. Sherlock had left with Dr. Watson, and that Mr. Mycroft had not returned to the manor for several days; he seemed to be away on a long trip, not in London.

Rose nodded and thanked her. The tension in her heart eased slightly, only to tighten again.

For so many days, she hadn't dared to see Sherlock, who was recovering from a serious illness. She didn't know how to face him. Should she go up to him and say, like when they first met, "Hello, I'm Rose"? Or smile at him like a real sister? That smile would surely be stiff, because she was a liar, and he wasn't a child anymore.

She was also afraid that she would lose control of her emotions, burst into tears, or say something she shouldn't, disturbing the peace he needed. Although she hated Mycroft, he was right; Sherlock couldn't take any more turmoil.

What she feared most was seeing complete unfamiliarity in his eyes. That would kill the last vestige of reality she held onto about their shared past.

Now that he was gone, she dared to approach his room. She needed to find something in Sherlock's house, some proof, to reinforce the realness of their relationship, to prove that they had a past, that they had attachment, that they had something beautiful.

Because that was the only thing she had left to live on after Eaton's death.

She had a smooth journey, since the only person in the family who could stop her wasn't in London.

As she turned the corner, she saw Sherlock's room wide open, undergoing a thorough cleaning. A small pile of unwanted items lay by the door, waiting for the servants to discard them.

She didn't pay any attention to the pile of waste that was about to be cleaned up; she only glanced at it briefly.

But when her gaze swept over the pile of things, she froze.

There was a hat there, a pirate hat she had knitted herself. The stitches were crooked, the fabric was yellowed with age, and the feathers around the edge had long since drooped.

She stood frozen in place, her blood seemingly cooling instantly, only to burn again in the next second.

Time suddenly reversed.

It feels like it was a winter many years ago, when Sherlock's coming-of-age ceremony was approaching.

Under the oil lamp, she hid in her room, pricking her fingers several times. She imagined Sherlock wearing it; it must look ridiculous. He always talked about being a pirate, escaping this house, and setting sail.

The pirate hat was a gift she prepared for him, carrying the rebellious dreams of a young boy and the most sincere blessings of a young girl.

Before her coming-of-age ceremony, she nervously showed it to Mycroft. At that time, she still harbored a girlish crush on this older brother. He shook his head and calmly advised, "Choose another one. If you don't want to ruin his coming-of-age celebration."

She understood, and put the hat in the closet, as if hiding an untimely secret.

Although the gift wasn't delivered, the birthday party was still a disaster. Sherlock revealed his long-held wish in front of all the guests, instantly humiliating the nobleman whom the lady cared about, and he himself was officially expelled from the circle.

Later, in a corner where the lady couldn't see, she finally gave it away. In the rose garden under the moonlight, the two sat on a marble bench. Sherlock took the hat but didn't wear it, simply saying softly, "Thank you."

By then, he had been forced to develop hydrophobia by the hypnotist, and they all knew that the dream about pirates could never be realized.

All she remembered was that Sherlock took the hat, carefully folded it, and put it away. But over the years, she never asked him where he had put it, because she couldn't bear to bring up anything about pirates again.

She didn't expect that this crudely made hat would be placed in his treasure cabinet, even just on the outermost shelf. But she stubbornly believed that he would still take good care of it, perhaps placing it with his childhood picture books, sleeping together in some dusty bookcase.

And now, the next time I see it, it's on a pile of trash that he threw away.

She picked it up, ignoring the dust, and held it in her arms like a treasure.

The objects are still there, and the people are not far away, but the connection between them has been unilaterally severed.

Things remain the same, but people have scattered and things have been abandoned.

The word has never been so concrete and cruel as it is now.

———

After a while, a deeper, heavier feeling, like cold water, slowly welled up and seeped into her. It was a tranquility after all hope had been utterly extinguished.

Strangely, once the last vestige of hope was crushed by that pile of garbage, this eerie tranquility descended. There was no more agonizing, no more vain expectation, only the stark reality and the clearest predicament.

Rose bent down, as if attending a funeral. She placed the hat back on top of the pile of rubbish.

She didn't go into Sherlock's room, but instead walked back to her bedroom the way she came.

The family portraits on the corridor walls watched her silently. But this time, the eyes of the Holmes family patriarchs no longer filled her with fear or guilt.

They are just paintings, like her, decorations trapped in this building.

After returning to her room, she began writing a farewell letter.

———

Sherlock:

By the time you read this letter, I will have already made up my mind to leave. There's no need to search, for you will no longer remember who you were looking for.

Forgive me for not having the courage to see you in the end, because I didn't know what expression to wear when facing someone who held half my life's joys and sorrows, yet knew nothing about me.

They say you're cured, but you've forgotten some things. You've forgotten those nights watching the stars in the garden, forgotten the times we depended on each other, and forgotten who I am.

I once thought that as long as you could remember even a single moment we spent together, my staying in this cage would have meaning. As long as I remembered, our friendship had never truly died. I told myself that I would remember the past you had lost for you.

But now I understand, that was just my selfish excuse. A trapped person uses memories as ropes, binding only themselves. If memories cannot flow in both directions, they become a gentle torture, for both parties.

So, I've decided to leave. I've put down that hat; I'm returning the sister who depended on you, the Rose who supported you, to the past, to the past you. To let go and allow you to be who you are now.

Please don't be sad for me. Just know that someone once gained enough strength to warm their entire life because of your smile. And that vow you made in the carriage on the way back to the manor, when you thought I was asleep, I actually heard it.

I will remember that moment for the rest of my life, remember that boy who longed for freedom, and remember how he clumsily tried his best to warm the heart of another trapped person.

That was the most delicate, precious, and extravagant secret in my life.

May your detective career flourish, and may you and Dr. Watson find the peace and tranquility you have been searching for all your life in a new and bright world.

goodbye,

Never again.

elder brother,

Forever Sherl, my dear brother.

"Rose"

———

She carefully folded the letter, then took it to the fireplace and watched as the flames first licked the corner of the paper before burning it completely, turning it into a small clump of warm ashes.

Some farewells don't need readers.