Chapter 3
1095 Words
"Get some rest. I need to go to the team. I'll be back tonight."
David also seemed unable to bear the nearly frozen air. He put down the luggage, gave a brief instruction, and left.
The sound of the door closing was not loud, but in the quiet room, it was like a muffled thunderclap.
Linda stood in the entryway for a long time, until her legs grew stiff.
She did not go to the bedroom. There were too many shared memories there.
She slowly walked toward the study. It was where David occasionally handled work matters at home. She rarely went there.
The study was simply furnished: a bookshelf, a desk, a chair.
On the desk, apart from a turned-off computer, there was nothing.
On the bookshelf were mostly medals and certificates.
Her gaze swept over them aimlessly and landed on an inconspicuous corner at the bottom of the bookshelf. There sat a dark blue hard-shell archive box. The edges of the lid were a bit worn, looking somewhat aged.
Acting on impulse, she walked over, crouched down, and pulled out the box.
The box had no label. A thin layer of dust had settled on it.
She opened the lid.
Inside were not important documents, but some old items.
A few early training badges, a broken old fountain pen, a theory notebook with curled corners... not many things, arranged messily, as if stuffed in casually.
Her fingers brushed over these objects that bore the marks of time, her heart a numb cold.
These were all David's past. A past without her.
Her fingertip touched a hard, smooth edge.
Wedged in the gap between the notebook and the side wall of the box. She gently pulled it out.
It was a photograph.
A large, carefully retouched wedding photo.
The man in the photo wore a crisp black suit, the corners of his lips slightly upturned, his expression unusually gentle. It was David, just younger, the line of his jaw still carrying a touch of youthful sharpness.
And closely snuggled against him, wearing a white floor-length wedding gown, smiling brightly, her eyes full of stars—was Lucy Green.
Linda's breathing stopped instantly.
Her blood seemed to freeze at that moment, then rush backward crazily, pounding against her eardrums with a buzzing roar.
Crouching on the floor, her fingers pinching the edge of the photo were cold as if pulled from an ice cave, trembling uncontrollably.
The photo was taken with great care. The background was a romantic sea of flowers. The soft light rendered the gaze between the two as deeply affectionate. The look of happiness, dependence, and complete trust on Lucy's face stung Linda's eyes.
That was an unreserved love that she had never shown in front of David, and that she had never received in return from David's eyes.
The wedding photos she thought she had were taken in a rush.
David said the mission schedule was tight, time was short. She understood. She chose the simplest package and hurriedly took a few sets at the studio.
In the photos, her smile was strained and forced. David stood straight, his expression more like completing a formation task—polite and distant.
The photographer had joked at the time, "Groom, relax a bit. Smile. Aren't you happy to marry such a beautiful bride?"
David had pulled at the corners of his mouth. In the final images, his smile was official and reluctant.
She comforted herself, telling herself that was just his personality. He was used to being serious.
It turned out he wasn't incapable of smiling, wasn't incapable of gentleness, wasn't incapable of showing deep affection in front of a camera.
He had simply given all his romance, thoughtfulness, and tender smiles to someone else.
Given her a "wedding" that might never be made public, yet was treasured deep in his heart.
"Pat."
A drop of hot liquid fell on Lucy's radiant smiling face in the photo, quickly spreading into a small wet patch.
Linda was stunned. She raised her hand to touch her own face. It was wet with cold tears.
Could she still cry?
The hollow place in her heart now felt as if it had been forcibly stretched and torn open by this photo.
Even more than when she had seen the suicide note.
The suicide note was a cold plan, a naked calculation. But this photo was proof of real, burning emotion that had once existed.
Proof that Linda Queen, from beginning to end, had not even been a "stand-in."
She was a complete and utter decoy, used to cover and transition.
She looked at Lucy in the photo, young and radiant, then at her own reflection in the glass window—pale as a ghost, sunken-eyed.
One like a rose in the blazing sun, the other like a withered branch after a storm.
How ironic.
She slowly stuffed the photo back into its place, closed the box, and pushed it back to the bottom of the bookshelf.
Her movements were slow, like a slow-motion movie scene. Every joint moved stiffly, as if rusted.
When she stood up, her vision went dark for a moment. She had to hold onto the bookshelf to steady herself.
The dull ache in her lower abdomen seemed to intensify, pulling at every nerve in her body.
She moved to the chair behind the desk and sat down, staring blankly at the wall ahead.
A framed sign still hung on the wall with the words Home, Love, Family written across it. She'd picked it out herself years ago.
Now, every character seemed to snarl at her, mocking her foolishness and failure.
This home had never been her home.
It was merely a carefully arranged cage, a showroom for keeping this "suitable wife."
And the one truly in his heart, the one he wanted to give a "peaceful home" to, had always been outside—standing shoulder to shoulder with him, sharing a secret wedding photo with him, sharing a career and a future.
The coppery taste in her throat rose again. This time she couldn't suppress it. She bent over and dry-heaved violently, but nothing came up. Only a burning pain spread from her stomach to her limbs.
She didn't know how long passed before the dry-heaving stopped.
She slumped in the chair, all strength drained from her body.
Outside the window, the sky had completely darkened.
The study had no lights on. Darkness swallowed her.
Only the glaring smile of Lucy in that wedding photo burned repeatedly in her mind, refusing to fade.
- Writer
