After He Returns, Say Goodbye

Sam and I had agreed to tell my father about us next week. But by dusk, my father's special assistant came, saying that Sam Shawn was to be sent northwest to escort vital supplies. When Sam Shawn came to see me, he clasped a small silver box, inside which lay a plain band ring. He knelt before me, fingers twisting the ends of my hair, his voice hoarse as if steeped in sand: "Nancy, wait for me to return, then I will go to the Lincoln Family to formally ask to marry you with a grand ceremony." I didn't take the ring, telling him to wear it first, saying it would be more meaningful to wear it once he returned. He ruffled my hair, then turned and walked into the night, his back as straight as a poplar tree that refuses to bend. Later, Dad said that the escort mission was fraught with danger; the northwestern border was restless, and one false move could lead to disaster. But I was not worried in the slightest—Sam Shawn's marksmanship was precise, his agility swift; even Father often praised him. I rejected all the family-arranged marriages: tearing up Mr. Warren's invitation, feigning urgent illness to avoid Mr. Lee, and finally telling Father plainly, I would wait for Sam Shawn and marry no one else. That wait endured for five years. Every day, white roses rested on my windowsill—the blossoms Sam Shawn loved—from the florist's deliveries at first, to when I learned to nurture them myself; the pots piled up to more than a dozen, yet he never returned. I watched the Northwest weather forecast every day, fearing he might freeze or starve, but whenever I asked Father, he only said, "Sam Shawn is fine." Among my five elder brothers, the eldest, William Lincoln, was the gentlest with me. He always said that if Sam Shawn did not return, he would find someone better for me. Yet each time, I would shake my head and say I must wait. That afternoon, a light rain fell, and the air was tinged with the scent of osmanthus. Butler Clark burst in, his face pale and voice trembling: "Miss, Young Master Shawn has returned!" I was so excited that I nearly knocked over my teacup. Grabbing my coat, I hurried to the door—but just as I reached it, Butler Clark caught me, his grip so strong it was painful: "Miss, you must prepare yourself." In his eyes, I saw sympathy, helplessness, and a touch of unwillingness to meet my gaze—I knew something terrible had happened. The hall was crowded with people. Eldest brother William Lincoln sat on the far left, Second Brother Yale Lincoln frowned, Third Brother Calvin Lincoln lowered his head, Fourth Brother Mike Lincoln played with his fingers, while Sam Shawn knelt before Dad. As I entered, everyone turned to look at me. Sam Shawn glanced at me as well, but there was no joyful anticipation in his eyes—only a coldness, like the snow of the Northwest. "Dad, what is happening?" I approached Dad's side, my voice trembling. Dad looked unwell; his stubble was unshaven, and exhaustion marked his face. Only when he looked at me did his eyes soften slightly. Before Dad could speak, Sam Shawn spoke first, his voice low: "Yolanda Wade is carrying my child; don’t blame her. She is innocent." He bowed to Dad, his forehead hitting the Bluestone slab with a soft thud: "I wish to use the merit earned from this escort mission to ask for permission to marry Yolanda Wade. I beg you, to grant your blessing." Following his gaze, I saw a woman in a pale blue dress standing behind him, her skirt pressed against a gently swollen belly, as if carrying a small bundle. Her eyes were rimmed with red; she clutched Sam Shawn's sleeve, her figure delicate and frail. My father instinctively glanced at me, then took a knife from the drawer and placed it on the table. Everyone knows that I, Nancy Lincoln, appear obedient but harbor a fiery temper, intolerant of betrayal. I stared at the blade; my pale face reflected within it. I said nothing, did not touch the knife, but lifted my eyes to that woman: "Hi, Sam’s wife." The moment those words left my lips, Sam Shawn's body stiffened; the eldest brother abruptly rose to speak but was silenced by our father's glare. Tears streamed down Yolanda Wade's cheeks as she bowed to me: "Nancy, thank you." I ignored her, turned, and walked out of the hall. The rain struck my face, chilling me to the bone. Back in my room, I opened the lowest shelf of the bookcase, where five years' worth of Marriage Proposal Letters lay stacked, their crimson covers embossed in gold. I randomly drew one; on its cover, the name ‘Eric Gabriel' writhed like dragons and phoenixes, capturing the reckless charm rumored to define him. My eldest brother came in just as I was tracing the name 'Eric Gabriel' on the cover.