When the Spring Wind Comes Chapter 2

The next morning, Will accompanied Renee to her prenatal checkup.

He held her hand the entire time, listening intently as the doctor explained every detail of the ultrasound.

When the checkup ended, Will went to the front desk to handle the paperwork, leaving Renee to wait in the lounge area.

The television in the waiting room was playing a morning show about literature.

"The book we're discussing today, Rain on a Sunny Day, is a diary written in prison by a young woman who served two years for someone else before passing away shortly after her release."

"The most heartbreaking part is that the person she saved still has no idea she went to prison in his place."

"She wrote in her diary that on the day she was released, she stood at the gates for a long time, debating whether to find him. Ultimately, she chose not to."

"She said: 'He doesn't know what happened. Telling him would only bring him pain, so it's better to just leave it like this.'"

I stood in the corner of the waiting room, not looking at Renee.

Instead, my mind drifted back to the days before those two years.

It happened eleven days after my leukemia diagnosis.

Will's company ran into severe legal trouble. It wasn't his fault; his business partner had fled, leaving Will's signature on a fraudulent document.

He called me that night, his voice dangerously calm. "Mamie, I might have to go away for a while. The lawyer says it could be two years."

I sat in the hospital corridor for hours. The diagnosis was still tucked in my bag: Leukemia. Confirmed. Prognosis highly uncertain.

I sat there thinking until the sun went down.

Two years.

If he went to prison for two years, his career and his company would be ruined, and he would come out only to face a girlfriend who was already dying.

So I called his lawyer. "I have some information I want to discuss regarding the case."

I had a way to take the blame. The price was two years.

The lawyer had asked me, "Does Will know about this?"

"No," I replied. "And he never will."

When Will called me later, saying there was a sudden turn of events and asking if I knew anything, I lied. "I don't know. Maybe there was a problem with the evidence. Don't worry about it, just wait for the outcome."

Hanging up, I stared at my medical report.

In two years, I would likely be dead anyway.

So he would never have to find out.

I thought disappearing quietly was the kindest way to end it.

I never realized that to him, my disappearance would be a wound that never healed.

"I hope he knows she didn't just run away," the TV host said.

I stood there, a heavy lump forming in my throat.

Will.

I didn't run away.

I just didn't know how to tell you where I was going.

Renee sat with her head lowered, her phone screen glowing, though she wasn't looking at it.

Will returned after finishing the paperwork, and they walked out together.

As they passed the television, Will's pace slowed.

He turned his head, casting a brief glance at the screen.

"I hope he knows she didn't just run away."

He pulled his gaze back, pushing open the heavy glass doors of the clinic.

His steps were steady.

But I saw his hand linger on the door handle for a full second before he finally pushed it open.

After lunch, Will drove Renee home, explaining that he had some urgent documents to handle at the office and would return by evening.

Renee stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye, then headed inside.

He waited until the elevator doors closed before turning toward the parking garage.

But halfway there, he stopped.

He stood in the empty corridor for a very long time.

Then he pulled out his phone, opening the search bar.

I held my breath, watching his fingers hover over the keyboard.

They stayed there, trembling slightly, for a long time.

Ultimately, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and kept walking.

That night, Will sat alone in the study.

Renee was already asleep, and the house was dead silent.

He reached into the very back of his desk drawer, pulling out a worn manila envelope. The edges were frayed, and the seal had a thin rip, as if it had been opened and then hastily pressed back down.

He placed the envelope on the desk, staring at it.

In the bottom right corner, my name was written in tiny, elegant script.

It was my handwriting.

Will reached out, his fingertips stopping just short of the envelope's edge.

Standing beside the desk, my heart hammered in my chest.

Will, open it.

It says I didn't do those things.

It says I didn't run away.

His hand hovered there for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, he pulled his hand back.

He placed the envelope back into the drawer, pushed it shut, and locked it.

That letter was something I had written before going to prison, intending to mail it to him, but I never did.

I didn't know how he had gotten hold of it.

I had written: Will, I didn't do those things, but I can't explain it. Don't wait for me.

I thought that by not sending it, he would never have to know.

Yet he had kept that letter locked in his drawer for eight long years.

He had never thrown it away.