At the age of eighteen, when Hattie’s first feelings of love blossomed, she had loved him.
In the blink of an eye, his memories shifted back to when he was twenty-one. On that day, Harry suddenly felt an urgent need to find Hattie. No one could hold him back, and he fell to the ground, his aging body feeling as if it might shatter.
But he persisted in trying to crawl outside, repeating, “I need to find Hattie. I have to find her, bring her back… bring her back…”
“Why do you want to bring her back?” Someone asked.
Harry paused, his aging face contorting with fierceness. “To lock her up. She’s mine, she’s mine! I won’t allow her to look at other men, I won’t allow her to love anyone else. She can only love me. I want to keep her in a place where no one will think of her.”
This was Harry’s obsession at twenty-one, his fixation. He believed it was merely possessiveness driving him to want to imprison Hattie in this way, to torment her.
For over a decade, he had been driven mad with the desire to possess her.
When he wanted something, he would forcefully take it, even if it meant causing harm, and he would do everything in his power to obtain it – this was a lesson he had always understood.
And indeed, he had used this method to keep Hattie, to trap her body.
Despite always obtaining anything through brute force, why did he end up with nothing in the end?
It turned out that in face of something truly desired, one must open their arms to embrace it.
The more he wanted to use brute force, the more he wanted to pull it towards him, the deeper the wounds became, and the farther the desired goal seemed to slip away.
Sadly, he had realized this too late. Even as he neared death, he regretted it. Perhaps this was what it meant to “live with regret for a lifetime”?
After that day, Harry fell ill and never recovered. He lay in bed, unable to get up, even needing assistance to eat. But he couldn’t eat anything, his life disappearing like ice under the sun, rapidly slipping away and dissipating like gas.
He always held onto Hattie’s picture, preserving it carefully. However, from prolonged handling, the edges of the photo had become worn, but luckily, the image of her remained clear.
His consciousness was unclear, oftentimes not even recognizing who he was, but each time he looked at the picture, he would say, “This girl is so beautiful… I really want to marry her… I really want to marry her…”
Eventually, he was forgetting even Hattie’s name. But each time he looked at her picture, that deep feeling would wash over him like a torrent of waves, his eyes blurred with tears.
He was close to passing, and the hospital had notified Hattie about it.
That day, Hattie was at home cooking. Over the years, she and Micah had not adopted any children, and her health had gradually declined. She often found herself alone at home, as Micah was frequently away. To prevent her from feeling lonely, Micah bought a well-behaved Golden Retriever named Coco.
Coco was ten years old now, equivalent to a human in their seventies or eighties, and was aging significantly, experiencing the same digestive and physical problems as an elderly person.
Squatting down, she poured some dog food, and Micah quickly approached, helping her up when she tried to stand.
Their hands held each other, having walked through the years by supporting each other step by step. They were no longer young; wrinkles adorned their hands, but their commitment had not changed – the ring on their ring finger had remained the same.
“I want to go to Peachshire Town Hospital,” Hattie said.
Micah knew that Hattie wanted to see Harry one last time, likely seeking closure.
“Okay…”
They took Coco with them to Peachshire, and along the way, Hattie received a call from the hospital, saying that Harry’s condition had improved suddenly, as if he had regained some vitality.
Perhaps he had a premonition. The person he most wanted to see was about to come to him, so he mustered up the strength to present himself in the best possible condition to meet her.
That morning, Harry unusually finished an entire bowl of porridge without vomiting. Clutching Hattie’s photo to his left chest, he muttered, “I’m finally going to see you…”
He couldn’t find comfort from himself, and so, he remained unfulfilled.
Harry half-closed his eyes, facing the door, where a streak of white light appeared with daybreak. Tears silently streamed down his face as he said, “Thirty-five years, is it enough?”
As he murmured, a familiar figure appeared at the door. Harry’s half-opened eyes suddenly widened, and he struggled to sit up, wanting to raise his hand and walk towards that figure, but he had no strength.
“Am I dreaming?” he asked, looking at the person who was Hattie, the person he had longed for over the years. Even though she had aged, he still recognized her at first sight.
Uncertain if it was a hallucination, his mind had never been quite right. If this were all false, then he should be seeing a younger version of Hattie, not the one standing there with graying hair.
As Hattie walked towards Harry, her voice had aged too, heavy, and hoarse. “Harry, I’ve come to see you.”