The Fake Substitute

As I signed the euthanasia consent form on the hospital bench, the ink on my fingertip blurred into a small black stain. The sunlight outside was harsh and blinding, yet I felt an icy chill coursing through me, as if I were submerged in freezing winter water. A nurse carrying a tray walked past; her white coat brushed my knees, faintly scented with disinfectant. She sighed and said, "Mr. Lincoln, have you really thought this through?", I nodded silently—I had long since made up my mind. The phone in my pocket vibrated; it was Wendy Scott's Moments update. In the photo, she stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of the VIP ward. Beside her lay the newly awakened Yale Gabriel, their hands intertwined. The caption read, "Happy rebirth, my light." I stared at that photo for a long time, until my eyes ached. The gunshot in the bar three years ago suddenly rang in my ears. The image of Wendy throwing herself to shield me from the bullet, and now her gentleness toward Yale Gabriel, overlapped like a dull blade slowly cutting into my heart. Back then, I thought she loved me, which was why she risked her life. Only today, when I saw Yale Gabriel's face—seven parts resembling mine—did I realize she wasn't shielding a bullet but fearing that her 'white moonlight' would lose its substitute. When I was discharged and went home, the hallway's voice-activated lights were broken, so I felt my way up in the dark. Every step felt like treading through memories—here was the laughter when Wendy Scott and I first moved in, the balloons I secretly arranged for her birthday, and... so many more things that now, looking back, seem like a bitter joke. I opened the door; the living room light was on, yet there was no sign of Wendy Scott. Only a cold cup of coffee sat on the tea table, beside it a note written in her familiar, elegant handwriting: "Pack up your things and move to the second bedroom; Yale needs me to take care of him." Clutching that note, I rubbed the edges of the paper between my fingers until they frayed. The second bedroom was small, with only a tiny window; it had once been used for storing clutter, but now it was to be my "bedroom." As I stepped into the master bedroom to pack my bags, the wardrobe still held the couple's jackets of Wendy Scott and me. Her coat was off-white; mine was dark gray. Back then, she said it looked like "clouds resting on the mountains," but now it seems it was merely my one-sided fancy. In the bottom drawer of the bedside table lay an iron box. It belonged to Wendy Scott during her college years and was covered with faded cartoon stickers. I once asked her what was inside, and she always said, "It's a secret." Compelled by some inexplicable impulse, I opened the iron box. Inside, there was no jewelry, no love letters—only a diary with a blue cover. Its pages were yellowed, and the corners badly curled. September 26th, the rain poured down heavily. At the entrance of the alley, I was confronted by three thugs. They grabbed the straps of my backpack and threatened to throw it into the river. I was so frightened that tears streamed uncontrollably. My hand suddenly froze; the warmth at my fingertips seemed to disappear instantly. On September 26th, ten years ago, I had just returned from my Grandfather's house. Passing that alley, I witnessed some young thugs harassing a girl. On September 26th, later, someone rushed over. He wore a worn blue jacket with frayed cuffs. He shielded me behind him, his voice hoarse as he said, 'Don't touch her.' At that moment, hiding behind him, I only saw how broad his shoulders were. My tears fell with a soft "plop" onto the diary, smudging the words. The blue jacket I wore ten years ago was my grandfather's; the worn cuff was torn when I helped him fix the pipes, and I never had the heart to throw it away. "September 27th, I went to the alley to find him, but found nothing. On the ground lay a silver button; I picked it up and placed it in my wallet, hoping to meet him again." I hurriedly touched my jacket, and sure enough, the cuff was missing a silver button. That was sewn by Grandfather's own hands, with tiny patterns on it. I searched for it for a long time back then but couldn't find it, only to discover it was with her all along. "On January 1st, I saw him at the mall! He was standing in the bookstore reading; his profile was exactly as I remembered, and he even had a small red mole at the tip of his nose. It must have been him!" My heart suddenly raced, as if it would leap out of my throat. But on January 1st, I was already abroad. Grandfather was ill, and I went overseas to find a specialist and get medicine. How could I have been in the bookstore at the mall?