When the Spring Wind Comes Chapter 1

After two months of complete silence, Rain on a Sunny Day suddenly claimed the number one trending spot online.

It began when a close friend of the author posted a brief statement on social media.

"This book is a young woman's private diary. Before she passed, she asked me to publish it, leaving me with only one request."

"She said, 'I hope if he ever reads this, he'll finally stop hating me.'"

Will sat at the dining table, casually scrolling past the trending post. He didn't even tap it, setting his phone aside face down.

Across from him, Renee was meticulously studying the menu, her brow slightly furrowed as if she were solving a complex equation.

"Is the wild mushroom soup good here?"

"It is."

Renee nodded, satisfied, and looked up to smile at him.

He closed the menu for her and smoothly reached out to slide her chair an inch closer to the table.

Renee had her head down, arranging her napkin, so she didn't notice.

But I did.

He used to do that exact same thing for me.

Except back then, I was still alive.

My name is Mamie. I have been dead for eight years.

Before I died, I spent two years in prison. Not long after I was released, I slipped away.

Leukemia, a damp, drafty cell, a scratchy wool blanket: a fever burned for three months before it finally consumed me.

I have been tethered to Will's side, a silent ghost, for eight long years.

Will and I met in high school.

That winter, the city was hit by the heaviest blizzard of the year. The school's heating broke, and we could see our own breath inside the classroom.

He sat directly behind me. During a break, he swiped the small metal hand warmer from my desk. When I turned around to demand it back, he said with utter seriousness, "Your hands aren't cold. Mine are."

"How do you know my hands aren't cold?" I asked.

He reached out, squeezed my hand briefly, and let go. "See? Warmer than mine."

He handed the hand warmer back to me, but then rested his own hands on top of it to steal some heat. "You don't mind, do you?"

By the time he asked, he was already soaking up the warmth.

"What's the point of asking now?" I grumbled.

He smiled, a quiet, boyish grin. "No point. Just polite."

Later, I realized he was just that kind of person.

He would do things first and only ask if you minded afterward. He would barge into your life and then ask if he was welcome.

Eventually, he left a folded slip of paper on my desk. It had only six words: I like you. Do you?

I took my pen and wrote beneath it: I do too.

He folded the paper carefully, slipping it into his chest pocket. For the rest of the afternoon, he sat incredibly straight, as if he were trying desperately to keep a burst of joy from bubbling out of him.

Sitting in front of him, I couldn't stop smiling.

He had this habit: he always drank his soup incredibly slowly.

Whenever I tried to rush him, he would say there was no hurry, and that burning your tongue was no fun.

"It tastes terrible once it's cold," I would argue.

And he would reply, "If it's cold, I'll drink it. If it's hot, you drink it. It's a perfect match."

He had an old injury on his left shoulder. Every time the weather turned damp and rainy, it would ache, though he never complained.

I only found out one rainy day when I caught him secretly massaging his shoulder.

I went to the pharmacy and bought medicated heat patches, but he refused to use them, calling it dramatic.

"Are you going to put it on, or do I have to force you?" I demanded.

He looked at me, then quietly submitted. "Put it on."

From that day on, whenever rain was in the forecast, I made sure to buy the patches in advance.

One day, he asked, "How do you always remember?"

"Because you never do," I answered.

He finished applying the patch, and after a quiet moment, he murmured, "Mamie."

"Yeah?"

"Always remember."

I thought he was talking about the patches.

It was only after I ended up in prison that I realized he wasn't talking about the patches at all.

He meant he wanted me to always be there.

But I couldn't stay.

All I could do, as I lay burning with fever in that damp, dark cell, was hold onto every memory of him, keeping them safe before I had to leave this world ahead of him.

The waiter served the mushroom soup. Renee leaned in to inhale the aroma, her eyes crinkling.

"It smells absolutely amazing."

Will ladled a bowl for her, sliding it gently across the table. "Careful. It's hot."

I stood by the table, watching them, and felt a dull, familiar ache swell in my chest.

The restaurant was quiet. Outside, the streetlights stretched their shadows long across the floor.

Renee suddenly spoke up. "Will, I've been reading this book lately called Rain on a Sunny Day. It's a young woman's diary, and it's beautifully written. Would you like to read it too?"

Will placed some food onto her plate, his voice completely flat. "You're pregnant, sweetie. You shouldn't read things like that. Emotional rollercoasters aren't good for the baby."

Renee nodded and dropped the subject.

I stared at his lowered eyelashes for a long time.

He hadn't even grasped the significance of the title.

As their dinner neared its end, the voices of two women at the neighboring table drifted over.

"Did you read Rain on a Sunny Day? That poor girl's story is heartbreaking."

"I know, I cried so much. She was locked up for two years, and after she got out, she passed away before she could even see him one last time."

Will picked up his water glass and took a slow sip.

I saw his knuckles whiten slightly against the glass.

It was there for only a split second, then gone.

After dinner, Will went to settle the bill, leaving Renee waiting alone at the table.

She looked down at her phone, the trending post still open on her screen.

In the photo, the girl's smile was soft and faint.

Renee stared at the picture, her brow furrowing slightly.

She felt as if she had seen this girl somewhere before.

Was it an illustration from the book, or was it something else?

"All set. Let's go."

Will returned from the register, snapping Renee out of her thoughts.

She stood up, took his arm, and walked out.

As she passed the spot where I stood, she suddenly turned her head, casting one final, lingering glance toward the photo on her screen.

Then she pulled her gaze away, stepping with him into the cool night air.

I watched her retreating back, a heavy dread settling in my chest.

She had recognized me.