The day before our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Shen Weilin destroyed our wedding photo.
When I came back from the market carrying groceries, the shards of the picture lay scattered across the living room floor.
He sat stiffly on the sofa, his expression blank, and when I entered, he turned sharp, cautious eyes toward me. Then, for what felt like the hundredth time, he asked that same painful question:
"Why do you have the keys to my house?"
Our children were either at school or buried in work, so it was just the two of us two aging people together, but infinitely apart.
I set the bags of vegetables down. My chest tightened, yet I forced myself to remain calm and picked up the pieces of glass and torn images.
His gaze followed me like a shadow. "Leave at once," he commanded sternly. "This is my home."
I didn’t respond. Shen Weilin had always been a gentleman, and I knew he would never raise his hand against a woman. Silence was my only shield.
After cleaning, I placed the groceries neatly into the refrigerator. Then, with practiced gentleness, I brewed him a cup of tea. I sat beside him, placed the steaming cup at his side, and leaned lightly against his shoulder. His body stiffened instantly, as if rejecting even the closeness of air.
Still, my tears betrayed me, falling softly onto the back of my own hand.
"Mr. Shen," I whispered, voice breaking, "Yan Ming is gone."
Yes. Yan Ming, our oldest friend, had passed away.
By sunset, I had dried my tears and busied myself in the kitchen. Through the half-closed door, I watched him in the dimming light his posture straight like a tree, his profile sharp yet refined. Nearly fifty years had passed, yet time seemed unwilling to touch him only strands of silver hair revealed the truth of age.
But the signs of decline had been there all along.
First, he began forgetting where simple things were kept. Then newspapers became tedious to read. Soon after, he couldn’t always find his way home.
Six months ago, the most devastating crack appeared in his mind, he forgot me.
He could recall our children, but not the woman who had spent half her life by his side.
To soothe him, our son told him I was just the housekeeper. Worse, he pulled out an old photo of Shen Weilin’s first love, Zhao Yulan, and told him that she was the true wife who’d died years earlier.
When Shen Weilin found that picture, he cradled it with trembling hands. His eyes brimmed with grief for the woman who no longer lived. Not long after, while I napped in exhaustion, he slipped out to enlarge her photograph. By the time I woke, he was already replacing every family picture in the living room with giant portraits of Zhao Yulan.
In that moment, my heart was dragged back thirty years, to the day I first met her.
Back then, Zhao Yulan wore a flowing white dress as she stood in the Shen family’s living room, smiling as she peeled an orange for Mrs. Shen. She suddenly turned and spotted me.
"You must be Su Lanying," she said sweetly. "Weilin has mentioned you before. If you don’t mind, I’ll call you Ying."
From the staircase, Shen Weilin descended with a book in hand his crisp white shirt glowing against fair skin, his entire presence as warm and elegant as sunlit jade. He smiled at me with gentle reproach.
"Where have you slipped off to? Look how sweaty you are."
I raised the small bucket I carried. "Young Master, I went fishing."
Outside the door, Yan Ming, bare-chested under the sweltering summer sun was putting away fishing gear. His tanned skin gleamed as he laughed in his deep, thunderous voice.
"Next time you want fresh fish, Master Shen, just let me know. I’ll catch the biggest ones for you."
His unrestrained spirit filled the courtyard.
Yulan peeked out, curious. "Ying, who is that?"
Handing the fish to my mother, I wiped my hands and answered softly, "That’s Yan Ming, my childhood friend."
The sunlight poured through the windows, painting the entire living room golden. Everyone exchanged glances filled with youth, curiosity, and possibilities. Perhaps right then, fate quietly etched its pattern into stone.
Chapter 01
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