Before the Smoke Clears

I am fifty-eight years old this year, and my name is June Biden. Today marks the thirtieth anniversary of my marriage to Miguel Greenfield. Sunlight streamed through the living room's floor-to-ceiling windows, falling on the white roses he always bought on the coffee table. I had been simmering his favorite soup since early morning, setting the table for two, waiting for him to come home. Miguel Greenfield was always punctual, yet by three in the afternoon, the front door remained firmly shut. I called his phone; only a cold busy signal came through the receiver. An inexplicable surge of panic rose in my heart. I grabbed the keys and rushed to his usual study. The study door was locked from the inside; the knocking echoed sharply in the silent hallway. When I had the property staff force the door open, I saw Miguel Greenfield leaning against the desk, his wrist hanging limply, blood staining the beige carpet. By the time the ambulance arrived, he had already stopped breathing. On the desk lay a farewell letter, its handwriting unmistakably his strong and resolute style. I unfolded it with trembling hands; each word pierced my heart like a sharp needle. He wrote of his deep love for my sister, Ellen Biden, carved into his soul from the moment they first met as youths. He wrote of his helplessness in marrying me, citing family pressure and Ellen's concessions. He wrote of his resentment toward me—for taking Ellen's place, for three decades of relentless entanglement. The final sentence read, "If there is a next life, I only wish to be with Ellen, and have no further connection with you." I stood frozen in place, my body numb with cold, tears refusing to fall. Thirty years of marriage—I thought we respected each other, but it was nothing more than a carefully crafted facade. I stayed in the empty house, clinging to hollow memories, walking alone through the rest of my days. No children, no friends or family to keep me company—only endless remorse and desolation. The moment I closed my eyes, I thought: if there is a next life, I never want to meet you again, Miguel Greenfield. A fierce heat, thick with smoke, engulfed me, choking me into violent fits of coughing. I suddenly opened my eyes to see wooden beams engulfed in roaring flames. The scent of burning wood and dust filled my nostrils, while crackling flames and cries rang in my ears. This is the Biden family's ancestral house, where Ellen Biden and I faced the fire when we were seventeen. I have been reborn. The pain in my body was unbearably real; my right leg was crushed by a falling wooden beam, sending searing agony through me. I struggled to lift my head and saw Miguel Greenfield nearby. He wore a white shirt, the cuffs stained black with ash, his face full of anxiety. In my past life, I thought he was worried about me, so I struggled with all my strength to reach him. But this time, I clearly saw his gaze pass right over me and rest on Ellen Biden behind me. Ellen curled up in the corner, trembling with fear, her face streaked with tears. Miguel Greenfield rushed over without hesitation, ignoring my outstretched hand, and held Ellen tightly in his arms. "Ellen, don't be afraid, I'll take you out." His voice was so tender it seemed to drip with warmth, blending seamlessly with the heartfelt words in the farewell letter. I watched them embrace as they walked toward the door, their backs resolute, without a single glance back. The pain in my chest was deeper than the wounds on my legs, but I no longer had the strength to mourn. In my past life, I was overcome by thick smoke while waiting for him to turn back, leaving a lifelong scar. In this life, I will never make the same mistake again. Enduring the sharp pain, I slowly rose, leaning heavily against the wall.