Encounter in Seattle
Summer in Seattle always carried the briny breath of Elliott Bay. Outside Pike Place Market, the air was a mingling of seawater, roasted coffee beans, and the sweet perfume of fresh bouquets. The strum of a street guitarist tangled with the cries of gulls, composing a city lullaby that was off-key yet achingly sincere.
Emily stood beside a weathered bench, an iced latte sweating in her hand, droplets tracing cool paths down her fingers. Her heartbeat quickened—not from caffeine, but from the knowledge that she was about to meet a man she had only seen in photographs—John.
She spotted him emerging from the far side of the crowd: tall, a faded baseball cap pulled low, the cuffs of his denim jacket frayed from wear. His pace was unhurried, almost deliberate, as if each step had been considered before it landed. Sunlight bounced off the bay and caught the edge of his profile, carving it in light.
Their eyes met across the noise and motion, as if two parallel lines had suddenly bent toward each other. Emily was the first to smile, a teasing curve to her lips. "Is this a date, or are we spies meeting in public?" John's mouth lifted at one corner, his voice low and roughened at the edges. "Look at me, and you'll know life still has hope."
In that instant, Emily sensed that beneath his humor lay a certain fragility—and it was precisely that fragility she felt compelled to approach.
The Marriage Agreement
John's illness was like the rain in Seattle—arriving without warning, leaving without a sound. That night, Emily sat in a dim Capitol Hill bar, the neon outside blurred and softened by the drizzle. A slow jazz tune drifted through the air, the saxophone's low hum underscoring a mood neither of them could name.
John sat across from her, a glass of bourbon in his hand, his knuckles pale from the grip. His gaze was steady, as if recounting someone else's story. "The doctor says I might not make it past two years."
Emily lowered her eyes, watching the bubbles rise in her drink as if they were the only thing she could hold on to. She tried to keep her tone light. "So, you're looking for someone to walk you through the rest of the road?" John paused for a few seconds, then met her eyes. "Not someone. You."
The words fell like a stone into the still water of her heart, sending ripples she couldn't ignore. Her instinct was to refuse—this was absurd; they had only met a handful of times. But in his eyes she saw a stubborn kind of loneliness, the kind that resisted pity yet longed for someone to stand beside him.
A few days later, they signed the marriage agreement in a small law office. No rings, no gown—just two friends as witnesses and a small apartment with creaky wooden floors to mark the start of their life together.
On the first day they moved in, Emily stood in the empty living room, watching the rain streak diagonally across the window. John leaned out from the kitchen. "You sure about this? This isn't a movie." Emily smiled. "I know. But in movies, life is too short. And ours… might be shorter."
Days of Living Together
The apartment they moved into sat on a quiet street in Capitol Hill, a three-story red-brick building where the hallway always smelled faintly of old wood and coffee. Outside their window stood a tall maple tree, its summer leaves so dense they nearly blocked out the sun. Occasionally, a squirrel would dart up the trunk, its tiny claws scratching against the bark.
In the mornings, the grinder from the café downstairs would whir to life, sending the scent of fresh beans drifting up the stairwell. Emily was always the first to wake, brewing a pot of coffee in the kitchen while humming an old tune. John preferred to rise slowly, shuffling into the living room in a loose T-shirt and slippers, settling onto the couch to watch a black-and-white film.
Their life together wasn't romantic so much as it was a series of small negotiations. Who would wash the dishes—Emily complained John never got them clean enough, while John grumbled that she stacked them too high. The milk in the fridge—she liked whole, he only drank skim.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, John's low groan would break the silence, a sign that pain had come. Emily would wake instantly, fumbling in the dark for his medication and a glass of water. Her hands trembled slightly as she searched the cabinet, but her voice stayed calm. "Here, drink this. Take your time." John would take the glass, a flicker of apology in his eyes, though he said nothing.
Rainy days were their quietest moments. The drops tapped against the glass while the room filled with the scent of coffee and the murmur of movie dialogue. Emily would sit on the rug, leaning against the couch with a book in her hands, and John would occasionally reach down to ruffle her hair. In those moments, they were just an ordinary couple, forgetting the agreement, the illness, and the ticking clock.
Leaning on Each Other
Autumn in Seattle carried a crisp edge in the air. On Lake Union, the water rippled under the wind, and sailboats—white silhouettes against a gray-blue sky—drifted slowly across the horizon. Emily pushed John's wheelchair along the lakeside path, the wheels crunching softly over fallen leaves.
"See? Those boats always find the wind," Emily said, pausing to point toward the water. John looked for a long moment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "What about us?" She tightened her grip on his hand, the warmth of her palm seeping through their interlaced fingers. "We will too."
Their days were as calm as the lake, yet beneath the surface, tides shifted. Some weeks John's health held steady—he could even walk downstairs for coffee. Other nights, he woke drenched in sweat, chest gripped by pain that stole his breath.
The hospital corridors were always cold, the white lights erasing any sense of time. Emily sat in a plastic chair in the waiting area, a medical report clutched in her chilled fingers. She watched John speaking quietly with the doctor, his expression steady, as if they weren't discussing his own life.
On the way home, rain began to fall again. Emily held the umbrella, John walking beside her, his arm brushing her shoulder. The rain drowned out their footsteps—and the words Emily kept to herself: I'm afraid one day you'll just be gone.
That night, John spoke suddenly. "You know, sometimes I feel like a boat without wind." Emily turned to him, meeting his gaze. "Then I'll be your wind."
The Miracle of Life
In Seattle's winter, darkness fell early. By four in the afternoon, the streetlights were already glowing, rain threading down through the amber light like strands of silver. Emily pushed John through the hospital's sliding doors, the blast of warm air doing little to chase away the chill lodged in her chest.
It was John's annual full check-up. In the past few days, he'd been in unusually good spirits, even joking about taking her to a Seahawks game. But Emily knew better—good days didn't mean the shadow of illness had lifted; it merely lingered in the corner, waiting.
In the waiting room, the wall clock ticked steadily. Emily's palms were damp, her gaze fixed on a small patch of water on the floor, as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. Beside her, John flipped through an old magazine, his expression as calm as if he were waiting for a delayed bus.
At last, the doctor emerged from the exam room, a stack of papers in hand. Emily held her breath. His expression was unreadable, but when he said, "Your condition has stabilized—much better than last year," something struck her chest—not pain, but a sudden, buoyant lightness.
John blinked, then slowly smiled—a rare winter sun breaking through, warm and unfeigned. On the way home, he bought a bottle of champagne. "I thought you didn't drink," Emily teased. "Today's an exception," he said, winking. "After all, we still have to keep practicing love."
That night, they popped the champagne on the creaky wooden floor of their apartment. The bubbles burst from the bottle like a year's worth of fear and tension finally set free. Outside, the rain kept falling, but inside there was laughter, the chime of glasses, and the rare, steady comfort of knowing they could sleep in peace.
Epilogue
Spring in Seattle still brought frequent rain, but the air now carried a hint of blossoms. The maple outside their apartment had sprouted new leaves, tender green swaying gently in the breeze. Emily and John walked side by side under a shared umbrella, the patter of raindrops on the fabric sounding like a softly sung lullaby.
They no longer planned each day with deliberate care, nor measured life by "the time left." Their days had grown simple—morning coffee together, afternoon walks by the lake, evenings spent watching films on the creaky wooden floor. Sometimes they argued over a recipe in the kitchen; other nights they talked late into the rain-soaked hours, their conversations meandering from the weather to childhood memories.
Occasionally, Emily thought of the marriage agreement—that piece of paper now tucked away in the bottom drawer, rarely touched. It was like a shadow from a distant past, a reminder of where they began, but no longer the definition of who they were.
One evening, they wandered near Pike Place Market, the bay wind carrying the taste of salt. The sun broke through a thick layer of clouds, spilling gold across John's profile. Emily looked at him and realized—they hadn't spoken the word illness in a very long time.
Sensing her gaze, John smiled. "What is it?" "Nothing," she said, shaking her head. "Just… I think we've really found the wind." John reached for her hand, his fingers curling gently around hers. "Then let's keep sailing."
The rain had stopped, and the streets gleamed under the lamplight. A seagull skimmed the water's surface, its cry sharp and clear. Emily drew in a deep breath, feeling the city's air fresher than ever. The future was still uncertain, but in that moment, they were walking the same road, side by side—and that was enough.
Between Humanity and Time
— The Trump Card of Love · The Days of Tearing Calendars
Preface
The truth of love often reveals itself in storms; the true colors of humanity are often distilled in the passage of time. Some vows break in the waves, some tenderness fades in the ordinary, and some memories, turned over page by page on a calendar, become the softest corners of the heart. This is a story about choices and letting go, about holding on and forgetting — and a journey of looking back at oneself in the long river of years.
The Trump Card of Love
The only real trump card in testing love is not how deep the feeling runs, but the most unvarnished side of human nature.
Broken Vows
The first story happened to a couple who had been married for many years. The husband was in a car accident, left paralyzed and beyond recovery. Faced with crushing medical bills, the wife ultimately removed his oxygen tube. He did not want to die — he cried, pleading with his eyes for her to save him. When he realized she had given up on him, he bit his tongue and ended his life.
In the second story, another long-married woman lost her husband to electrocution. She received a large compensation payout. She wept and swore she would follow him in death. But three months later, she took the money and married a man she had fallen for online.
Humanity and Helplessness
In the face of disaster, there is rarely the legendary "till death do us part." Yet to become a cynic about love because of this would be going too far. If you heard these stories from those who lived them, you might sense the sorrow — not heartlessness, but helplessness.
No woman is truly so cold as to watch her husband of many years die without lifting a hand. But when the pressure exceeds the limits of endurance — say, you have only $100 to your name but need $10,000 for treatment — and there is no way to raise it, what then? The decision to give up must have come after agonizing weighing of options. The choice may go against morality, but it only shows that their love lost to the selfish side of human nature.
In the second story, starting a new relationship soon after a spouse's death does not necessarily mean the past love was forgotten. Time is the greatest healer, and everyone's healing pace is different. Must one cling to eternal fidelity to prove the greatness of love?
The Color of Choice
Many men and women, when choosing a partner, put appearance, power, and wealth first. But the elders say: all that is false — find someone reliable, that's real. And "reliable" simply means a partner who is kind and decent. In ordinary days, such qualities may seem unremarkable, but when hardship comes, kindness and decency stand worlds apart from selfishness and coldness.
The Days of Tearing Calendars
The test of love often plays out in the long river of time. As the days are turned over one by one, the true colors of the heart emerge.
The Thick and Thin of a Calendar
At year's end, my desk calendar bulges high on one side, while the other is as thin as a cicada's wing. The thick side is the time already gone, marked with addresses, phone numbers, and occasional thoughts. It is like a heavy brick pressing on the heart of youth.
I imagine the inventor of the desk calendar was a young person, unafraid to face time head-on. But for the middle-aged and elderly, a stack of used calendars can stir a sigh of "life is but a dream."
Childhood Calendar Memories
When I was a child, our home always had a wall calendar with a picture of Chang'e flying to the moon. Every morning, my favorite thing was to tear off a page. Black dates meant school; red dates meant Sunday — a day to sleep in.
My father would call, "It's getting cold, get up!" — cold meaning the breakfast he had made. If I didn't move, he would let the dog into the house to pull me from bed.
Days That Flew Away
If I woke late and found someone else had torn the page, the day felt tasteless, as if I hadn't truly owned it. Some torn pages blew out the window, some fell into the pigpen, some, lucky ones, landed in the vegetable garden and returned to the soil.
Frugal families would save the pages for reuse, but in my house, thanks to my restless hands, not a single day was kept — they all flew away.
Calendars in Adulthood
As I grew older, I lost the habit of tearing calendars. Only after moving to Harbin did I start "living the days" again, flipping the calendar each morning from one side to the other. Sometimes I would jot down brief diary notes:
Feb 14, 1993: Accidentally broke a flower-patterned bowlAug 28: Double rainbow at the horizon; bitter melon soup was deliciousJan 19, 1994 (Laba Festival): Cooked eight-treasure porridge
These notes turned the calendar into a simple diary, making it worth keeping.
Looking Back
No matter how unwilling we are to face the passing of days, youth will always become the past. If I could gather back the pages I tore as a child, perhaps my late father would again stand in the yard, letting the dog in to wake me; perhaps the long-deserted courtyard would bloom green once more.
But once days are gone, they can only live on as memories — and yet they remain deeply etched in the heart.
III. Echo and Aftertaste
The trump card of love lies deep in human nature; the truth of human nature often emerges in the flow of time. As the calendar turns, love too is tested day by day. Some bonds break in storms, some fade in the ordinary, and some settle into a gentle hue over the years.
Time will not stop for anyone, but it will leave behind answers — about love, about humanity, and about ourselves.