My husband, Julian, is a name whispered in awe in the halls of science. During an interview about his life, the topic turned to his relationships. He stated, coolly: "I do not believe I am a suitable partner." "Under no circumstances would I ever place sentiment first." "I am only willing to dedicate my finite time to the pursuit of infinite science." After the program aired, he was met with a chorus of praise for his fearless dedication. I, however, quietly folded away my latest medical report. I had cancer. Terminal. The days he would spend in London, accepting his award, would be my last on this earth. 1 The last thing I remember before my consciousness faded was the blinding glare of the surgical lamp. And when my spirit detached, able to see the entire operating room, I watched as the line on the heart monitor beside my bed went flat. That's when it dawned on me. I was dead. 2 For some reason, I had become a spectral form, able to drift anywhere. It was strange; just this morning, I'd felt well enough to speak with Julian for a bit. He had a conference in London to present his latest findings, and his flight was at noon. I woke at seven to make him breakfast. Julian, for all his austerity, was a picky eater. The toast had to be burned just so, the milk heated to precisely eighty percent. As our son, Leo, would say, "Mom, you've completely spoiled Dad's palate." I never argued. After two or three decades of meticulous care, even the most troublesome tasks had become second nature. 3 "Julian, dear," I began, "I heard the weather in England is going to take a sudden dip because of some air mass." "I've packed an extra down vest for you." "There's gum in the left pocket of your backpack. Your ears always pop on the plane; chewing a piece should help." "Don't stay up too late. Hasn't your heart been bothering you recently? Try to get some sleep—" "It's a polar continental air mass." His words cut me off. I looked up slowly, meeting his clear, sharp eyes. The saying "time is kind to the beautiful" was certainly true for Julian. His brow was still strong and defined; though he was nearing middle age, time seemed to have left no mark on him. Which meant the chill he'd carried since his youth could still pierce straight through to my heart. He was correcting the imprecision of my first sentence. The "some air mass" over England was a "polar continental air mass." But I was just trying to show I cared. I lowered my eyes and straightened his tie. "I know, I know." "Be safe on your trip, Julian." He walked past me. He thought I had a quiet afternoon ahead of me. He was wrong. He was flying across the Atlantic for an academic conference. I had a conference of my own to attend. My pre-operative consultation. The doctor had told me the surgery had only a twenty percent chance of success. 4 The day the doctor told me my stomach cancer had been caught too late, that it had already spread throughout my body, I sat on a bench in the hospital corridor for the entire afternoon. A television mounted in the corner was replaying an episode of Today's Focus, the interview Julian had given a few days prior. The cold-eyed man didn't want to waste a moment on anything outside of his research. Even when asked about his wife, he was brief. "I am, for lack of a better word, a block of wood." "I don't understand love. My wife… to me, she is more of a responsibility." "Do we celebrate anniversaries? That's just formalism. I would rather spend that time running a few more experiments." That sounded exactly like him. Forget anniversaries; he didn't even celebrate birthdays. When I was younger, I used to pester him about it, hoping that one day he would appear before me holding a bouquet of radiant roses. But I never once received a single rose. The mind that could commit countless data points to memory simply refused to retain the four digits of my birthdate. Eventually, I learned to sit alone at the table with a bowl of noodles and call it a celebration. Julian was a stone tree that could never blossom. It took me over twenty years to finally accept that truth. In recent years, I'd started to feel that something was wrong with me, too. Call it exhaustion or surrender, it didn't matter. It was laughable, really. He is he, and I am I. He had laid that simple truth before me decades ago, and only now did I finally understand it. I folded the diagnosis into a small square, tucked it into my pocket, and called my son. 5 Leo and I were close. Julian had never liked children, especially since his only son showed zero aptitude for science. After listening to my dispassionate explanation, Leo's voice was thick with emotion. "Mom…" "Did you… did you tell Dad?" "I didn't tell him," I said, my gaze fixed on the granite floor beneath my feet. "I don't want to tell him." He is he, and I am I. Besides, what would he do if he knew I was sick? Would he put aside the research that consumed him day and night to take care of me? "Leo," I said softly. "Mom doesn't know how much longer she has." "When the day comes that I'm gone, don't tell your father." I smoothed the hem of my clothes. Why bother him with something he cared so little about? "Okay," Leo agreed on the other end of the line. "Honestly, Mom, he doesn't deserve you. He never did." … 6 My spirit drifted through the hospital's corridors. I watched the doctor emerge from the operating room, shaking his head in regret. I watched Leo collapse beside my hospital bed, sobbing. He had brought me to the hospital at noon and had waited outside the OR all evening, but his mother wasn't strong enough. She never opened her eyes again. He cried so hard. I circled him frantically, but he couldn't see me. I ached to hold him, to tell him not to cry, just as I had when he was a little boy. Leo had tried so hard. He hadn't become the scientist his father had hoped for, but his paintings were loved by many. He even had a solo exhibition scheduled in Italy for the fall. I sat beside him, looking up at the night stars, and sang to him like I used to when he was small. He couldn't hear me, but I felt that somehow, he would know his mother was with him. … Suddenly, I was carried away by a gust of wind, transported to a place far, far away. The senses of a spirit are truly bizarre. On one hand, I could still perceive what was happening at the hospital after my death. On the other, I had arrived at the venue of Julian's conference. The conference was scheduled to last for seven days. Dressed in a sharp suit, he was easily the center of attention. Young, handsome, with a résumé that was virtually unparalleled. The truth was, Julian had probably been the center of attention his entire life. In college, the girls who admired him were countless. It was an era that still held onto some traditional values, yet girls would brazenly chase him all the way to his dormitory. He would always look at them with that same dismissive gaze, dressed in a plain white shirt, clutching a textbook under his arm, his head bowed in a restrained, distant manner. "I'm sorry, I'm not interested in you." His words were mercilessly blunt. The popularity that many men flaunted was, to him, merely a nuisance. Back then, he was already drowning in national awards. The professors constantly sang his praises. I was one of the many students who looked up to him, one of the most peripheral ones. I only dared to steal glances at the corner of his shirt as he left the cafeteria. Julian had no idea that I had secretly been in love with him for three or four years before our families set us up. And I could never have imagined that three years after graduation, the man my family arranged for me to meet would be him. "I will never be in love with anyone." That was the first thing Julian ever said to me. "If I must say I love something, then I love running experiments, doing calculations—anything that doesn't involve people." He frowned slightly, a gesture that still couldn't hide his dazzling good looks. He stated his position with stark clarity. "We are not discussing love." "We are simply ensuring the continuation of a lineage. Do you understand?" … He had been so clear back then. It was I who thought I could accept it. It was I who chose to be with him. I always believed that time was on my side, that one day his clear, placid gaze would finally settle on me. I always believed that he— Would fall in love with me. Was it overconfidence? To pin all my tireless devotion on the flimsy hope of "love growing over time." My spirit drifted to his side. I watched him engage in a serious discussion with a scholar across from him, his tall figure exuding a cool elegance. "Was I a fool?" I murmured, my hands in my pockets as I looked at him. "They say high-IQ individuals see normal people the way normal people see idiots." On the other side of the world, my body was being loaded into a hearse. The academic conference buzzed with voices. "Julian, do you think I was a fool?" 7 Julian took a picture of the London nightscape and sent it to me. Of course, I would never be able to reply. Leo, true to his word, never told his father about my passing. He even blocked Julian from seeing the obituary he posted using my social media account. It was for the best. I had clung to him for so long in life; I was afraid of troubling him even in death, forcing him to change his flight. Besides, I didn't think he would want to see me one last time anyway. The view of London at night was beautiful. But for some reason, he stood on the windswept terrace for a long time that night, staring at his phone. I drifted closer and realized why. In the past, whenever he sent me a message, I would almost always reply instantly. When he traveled abroad, he would occasionally send me a few photos, and I would respond with an emoji I'd saved from Leo—a thumbs-up, or two, with the words "Awesome!" written above. This time, he waited. And I never replied. "Professor Thorne," a young woman's voice said from behind him. "It's starting to rain again. You should come back inside before you catch a cold." It was one of his students. In academia, some things were an open secret. The girl moved closer, about to drape a coat over his shoulders, but he pushed it away. 8 "Fish and chips." "Disgusting." Julian sent me a picture from a restaurant. My body was pushed into the cremator. "It's raining again." Julian sent me a picture from the window of his hotel. Friends and family attended my burial service. "Presenting my findings tonight." "Flight back is tomorrow." Julian stood on the lecture stage, a sea of cameras flashing at him. My English was rusty, but I understood enough. His latest achievement was another monumental contribution to human progress. There he was, under the spotlight, in his element, shining with the brilliance everyone expected of him. I think that's why I loved him for so many years. But that was me loving him, not the other way around. As the April rain fell and my ashes were interred beside a square headstone, I finally understood that simple truth. 9 That night, after the conference ended, Julian called my phone. When the third call went unanswered, he changed his flight to one departing in the dead of night. On the plane, his brows were knitted together, his face even colder than usual. I suppose it made sense. For so many years, I had been at his beck and call. For me to suddenly be unreachable must have been unsettling for him. Normally, whenever he returned from a trip, I would be at the airport to pick him up. I'd always arrive an hour or two early, just to wait. It was another one of those habits. You can't bear to let the person you love suffer any inconvenience. I always did my best to make his life comfortable. But this time, he would have to walk through a deserted terminal alone and hail an overpriced taxi at four or five in the morning. He arrived home at six. He knocked first. No answer. He used his fingerprint to unlock the door and pushed it open. The house was empty. Everything was just as he had left it. The sink was spotless, the dining table bare. But my slippers, the ones I always wore, were still neatly placed by the entryway. He unbuttoned the coat he'd been in too much of a hurry to change out of and walked through the dark house, circling again and again. The bedroom. The balcony. The bathroom. Finally, he pulled open the washing machine door. … Finding nothing, he paused, took out his phone, and called me again. A long wait, then the busy signal. He took a deep breath, his thumb swiping to another number on his contact list. Leo's. Their relationship had been strained even before Leo became an adult. For years, Leo only came home to see me, with no intention of acknowledging his father. Julian's attitude was much the same—immersed in his work, he wanted nothing to do with raising a child. He was absent during the most crucial stages of his son's development, so his son had never spoken to him with much warmth. "What do you want?" "Where is your mother?" Both their tones were sharp. But Leo paused. Then came a strange, hollow laugh, a sound impossible to describe, as he repeated the question in a mumble. "Where is my mother?" "My mother's gone." "Gone where?" Julian's frown deepened, the first light of dawn landing right between his brows. I heard my son's voice on the other end of the line, suddenly pale and thin. "Not gone where." "She passed away, Dad." 10 A long, heavy silence stretched between both ends of the phone line. From my vantage point, I could see the knuckles of the hand Julian held the phone with turning white. "You're old enough to know better than to make such tasteless jokes," he said, his tone scolding. He didn't believe it. It seemed the idea that I could die, that my funeral could be held without him even being notified, was something that simply did not exist in Julian's reality. Leo's voice went hoarse on the other end. After a long moment, he let out a laugh that sounded almost like a release. "Dad," he said. "I haven't told you a single joke since I was twelve." Leo hung up. The dial tone buzzed from the phone, but strangely, Julian seemed frozen, holding the phone in the same position, just standing there. Slowly, he sat down on the living room sofa. Julian was meticulous and rigorous in his academic life, but his personal life was the complete opposite. He was casual to an extreme. So, I was always the one cleaning the house. His study was often piled high with papers he wouldn't let me touch. He had snapped at me more than once over things like that. Thinking back now, maybe I was never the right person for him. Perhaps he needed a fellow female scientist with whom he could traverse the vast, boundless universe of academia. Not a writer for a small publication who only knew how to wash the sofa covers until they were faded, who didn't even know what a polar continental air mass was. Light began to seep into the room. I saw him touch the lace trim on the sofa cover. The lace that had already gathered a thin layer of dust. He rubbed it, over and over again. 11 The front door opened. Julian whipped his head around, the movement so abrupt I was afraid he'd sprain his neck. But it was Leo standing in the doorway, dangling a key from his finger. "Dad, good, you're here." "Where did Mom keep her ID and the household registration book?" "I need to go to the registrar's office…" Julian's fingers, still toying with the lace, froze. "…to cancel her registration." … The cabinet under the television held some of our personal documents. Julian was the type to toss these things around carelessly, including some of his major award medals, so I always put them away for him with great care. He was indifferent to them, but I would always trace their engravings with a happy smile. "What's the point?" he'd ask, not understanding why his awards made me so happy. I would just beam and link my arm through his. "Because you're my husband, of course! I'm happy when my husband wins an award." When I was younger, I used to be more clingy and affectionate. Over the years, I had toned it down considerably. Julian was now holding our marriage certificate, not letting go. The photo on it wasn't very good. His lips weren't turned up in the slightest, while I was smiling as if it were my own personal, grand wedding. Leo found my ID and turned to see his father holding the two red booklets, staring at them intently. "Don't worry, Dad," Leo said. "Now that Mom is gone, your marriage to her is naturally dissolved." "You're not her husband anymore. Not ever again." "Happy? You're free to pursue relationships with all those young female students you mentor now." This was the kind of sharp, sarcastic tone that would usually make Julian furious. But this time, he didn't react for a long time. In fact, he seemed to have been lost in a daze for a while. He just slowly stood up and picked up the trench coat hanging on the sofa. "I'll go with you." 12 They didn't say a word to each other the entire way. To be honest, I had wondered what Julian's reaction would be after I died. I imagined a simple "Oh" or "I see," before he would dive back into his great research for the betterment of humanity. He didn't love me. I knew that. So my departure would be, at most, an interlude for him—not too big, not too small, like a pebble dropped into a lake. The fact that he was personally going to cancel my registration… I didn't know whether to thank him for old times' sake. Watching my own existence being officially erased was a rather unique experience. Leo handed over the documents, and Julian sat on a chair in the waiting area. Even so, he was still a striking figure. Dressed in a teal coat, he stood out like a solitary pine tree. I could always spot him in a crowd. I didn't know what he was thinking, his dark eyes quietly reflecting the bustling crowd. Just like that, Leo filled out my cancellation form. The clerk on the other side of the window confirmed the details. When the booklet was handed back, it had a new stamp on it. "DECEASED." Julian stared at that word for a long, long time. So long that Leo snatched the booklet from his father's hand. "I'll come back in a few days to get Mom's things." "Who said you could?" Julian's voice, unused for so long, was dry and raspy. "I'm her son. Why can't I?" "I'm still her husband." "You're nothing," Leo spat. After that, they both fell silent. Julian was still standing there, but I felt as if all the strength had been drained from him in an instant. He closed his eyes and said slowly, "Your mother never told me she was sick." "Yeah," Leo nodded. "What good would it have done?" Leo took the booklet stamped "DECEASED" and walked away. Julian was left standing alone at the entrance of the registrar's office. I knew it all along. Julian was always just a passerby in my life. It was impossible to melt a man like him. He was forever rational, forever on his pedestal. The sun beat down mercilessly. He turned and walked down the street, the air thick with the sound of cicadas.
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