"Now, Sienna, the game is over."

He stood up and spoke to the security guards who had rushed over, "Throw her out. From this day forward, she is barred from ever stepping foot into this residential community again."

The guards dragged the screaming and weeping Sienna away.

Sylvester stood at the entryway, staring at the familiar front door, suddenly lacking the courage to push it open.

This place was filled with Vivian's shadow.

He took a deep breath and finally stepped inside.

In the living room, that pot of pothos still sat on the balcony, its vines already mostly withered and yellow.

During the days since she left, no one had watered it.

Sylvester walked to the balcony and picked up the watering can, but his hand shook so violently that water spilled all over the floor.

He set the can down, knelt on the ground, and gently caressed the withered leaves.

"I'm sorry... I came too late."

He sat in the living room for a very long time, until the moonlight crept across the entire floor.

Then, he stood up and entered the study.

That was the place Vivian used to spend the most time in.

With trembling hands, Sylvester pulled open the desk drawer.

There were no gold or silver treasures inside, only a metal box with a sticky note affixed to the lid:

"A gift for Harvey. — Mom"

He opened the box.

Inside lay a thick stack of travel tickets.

From Seaport City to New York, from Seaport City to Los Angeles, from Seaport City to Chicago... every single one belonged to a city he had visited on business, spanning a time frame of twenty-five years.

On the back of each ticket, a line of small text was written:

"He is here today. I wanted to go see where he works, but I am terrified of disturbing him."

Sylvester flipped through them one by one, his vision blurring entirely with tears.

It turned out that during these twenty-five years, it wasn't that she hadn't thought of him.

She had simply... never dared to disturb him.

There were also two notebooks inside the box.

One was a marriage journal, each page recording the minutiae of their daily lives:

"May 20, 2018. Our fifth anniversary. He forgot. I baked a cake and waited for him until midnight. The cake melted, and I cried."

"May 20, 2023. Our tenth anniversary. I found an anomaly in my medical checkup. I wanted to tell him, but he was in the middle of signing an important contract. Never mind, I won't say anything."

"September 10, 2028. Teacher's Day. He bought a limited-edition designer bag for Sienna. The gift I received was a text saying 'Happy Teacher's Day'."

The other notebook was a record of their son's growth, with her handwriting on the back of every single photograph:

"Harvey is three. He called out for 'Daddy' for the first time, crying into the phone for half an hour."

"Harvey is seven. His birthday wish was to have Daddy accompany him to an amusement park just once. He was away on business."

"Harvey is twelve. He wrote an essay titled 'My Father,' saying his dad is a hero. He doesn't know that heroes never come home."

Sylvester knelt on the floor, clutching the two notebooks to his chest, weeping like a broken child.

He had never known that during the days of his absence, she had quietly recorded so much all on her own.

She recorded his coldness.

She recorded their son's longing.

She recorded... her own humble, desperate love throughout her entire life.

His phone suddenly vibrated; it was a text message from Victor Hurst:

"Sylvester, there is a letter left behind for you in my sister's belongings, tucked inside her lesson plans. She said if there ever came a day where you truly wanted to read it, then I should give it to you."

"Now, do you want to read it?"

Sylvester stared at the line of text for a very long time before replying with a trembling hand:

"Yes."

Chapter 9

What Victor delivered was a thick manila envelope.

Sylvester sat at the desk, looking at the envelope, his hands shaking so much he could barely hold it.

He remembered Vivian saying during her life: "Sylvester, the greatest flaw in your character is that you never truly listen when someone speaks."

She had been right.

He had never truly listened to her.

He had never truly looked into her eyes.

He had never truly considered... just how much pain she was in.

Sylvester took a deep breath and opened the envelope.

Inside was not a single letter, but an entire set of lesson plans.

The essence of Vivian’s thirty-year teaching career filled the pages, each one covered in detailed annotations, with every core concept circled heavily in red ink.

On the very last page was her handwritten teaching summary:

"Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire."

"Literature is not an exam, but a way to teach children how to love, how to feel pain, and how to live."

"I have taught for thirty years, and my greatest regret is that I failed to teach the person I loved most... the meaning of cherish."

Beneath it was a message she had left behind for him:

"Sylvester, if you are reading this letter, it means you are finally... willing to look."

"I don't know when this will be. Perhaps I am already dead, or perhaps you remain exactly as you were before, never even opening this envelope."

"But since you are reading this, let me leave you with a few final words."

"First, do not blame Harvey for hating you. It was my failure as a teacher; I made him believe his father didn't love him. In truth you do, your methods are simply wrong."

"Second, do not blame yourself. My illness was worsened by my own delay; it has nothing to do with you. Those three times I wanted to tell you, you were busy, and I made the choice to remain silent."

"Third, if... if you are truly feeling remorseful, please do one thing for me."

"Donate my book royalties to the mountain schools for girls. Give them the chance to read, and the right to choose their own destinies, so they never have to live like the women of my generation, relying entirely on a man to survive."

"Finally..."

The handwriting paused here for a long time. There were smudges where the ink had bled, looking as though tears had fallen upon the page.

"Finally, live well."

"Watch Harvey get married and have children on my behalf, and watch those girls from the mountains enter university."

"Please... learn to love yourself."

"Your wife, Vivian Hurst."

"My final words."

The letter slipped from his fingers.

Sylvester slumped back into his chair, staring into the pitch-black night outside, suddenly finding it difficult to draw breath.

She said "do not blame yourself."

She said "it has nothing to do with you."

She said "live well."

Yet the more she spoke this way, the more intensely he loathed himself.

He loathed himself for why he hadn't discovered it sooner.

He loathed himself for why he hadn't treated her a little better.

He loathed himself for why... he only understood the meaning of cherish after losing her forever.

Suddenly, his phone began to vibrate frantically.

Message after message came rushing in like a tidal wave—

First, from a student's parent: "Mr. Hurst, I finally have the means to repay the three years of tuition Mrs. Hurst covered for my child, but I can't reach her no matter what..."

Next, from Auntie Maria, the school cleaner: "Mr. Hurst, Mrs. Hurst was constantly coughing up blood in the restroom during her last month. I told her to go to the hospital, but she said she had to wait until her students finished their final exams..."

Then, from her colleague at school: "Mr. Hurst, Mrs. Hurst organized all her lesson plans long ago, saying 'just in case I am no longer around, the students will still have something to refer to'..."

Finally, a video message arrived.

Sent by the class president, Caleb Moore. In the frame, the entire class stood before Vivian’s desk, every single one of them with red, tearful eyes.

Caleb held up a sheet of paper, his voice cracking with emotion, "Mr. Hurst, this is a petition written by our entire class... We miss Mrs. Hurst... She promised to stay with us until graduation... Is she... never coming back?"

At the end of the video, the students shouted in unison:

"Mrs. Hurst—we are waiting for you to come back—!"

The sound vibrated so loudly it made Sylvester's ears ache.

He closed the video and collapsed over the desk, his shoulders shaking violently.

She isn't coming back.

Your Mrs. Hurst is never coming back.

Even up until her death, she was thinking of you all, thinking of her students, and thinking of her classes.