Five Years of Marriage to Mr. Bradford (by Koi Fish) novel Chapter 552

It was a brief travel journal entry. The handwriting wasn’t Vance’s; she knew his script too well.

It was obviously a photocopy, and she couldn’t help wondering, “Could this be from Darren’s travel diary? Has Vance gone there, copied a page, and pasted it onto the postcard for me?”

She hadn’t known Darren that well.

It was said that handwriting revealed one’s character. Darren’s script was bold and strong, his sentences short and direct, which meant he was straightforward and masculine as a guy.

She slipped the postcard into a drawer.

The second letter arrived a week later. This time it wasn’t a postcard but a printed sketch on paper. She couldn’t quite place the meaning of the figures until a letter slipped out of the envelope.

[Dear Rebecca,

[I couldn’t resist writing to you. After leaving the Lake District, I found the guesthouse where Darren once stayed. It sits right along the road–a century–old, classic, countryside cottage that’s incredibly charming. I wish I could take pictures and send them to you; you’d love it.

2

[The place is filled with old objects, especially the paintings on the walls. Some were passed down through the owner’s family for generations, others left by guests.

[The one you’re looking at is one Darren left behind. Do you remember what he drew? Flip it over for the answer.]

Rebecca eagerly turned the sketch around. She now recognized the bold, firm strokes. It was Darren’s handwriting.

[Brought my friends to the cottage. Who was the one loving these chubby little houses?]

She flipped it back and studied the drawing. Darren’s skill was surprisingly good.

With the right context, she easily recognized several old classmates: Darren, Vance, Jethro, a few familiar boys whose names she couldn’t recall, and two girls–she and Jenny.

She reluctantly set down the drawing and

on to read the letter.

[You know what? The owner still remembered him. Said he stayed for nearly two weeks, carrying his sketch board and going out

to draw every day.

[She remembered him so clearly because he was an American and incredibly handsome. His car, jacket, boots, and easel were cool, but the coolest thing was his eyes. I asked her, “Is he more handsome than me?”

[She nodded without hesitation. Said Darren was bursting with vibrant life force, way more handsome than a listless gentleman like me. I didn’t tell her that Darren was gone, Let her remember his bold, lively spirit instead.

[I feel so despicable. Here I am, with my fading life, stealing warmth from someone who’s already passed away. Using the traces he left behind–his youthful energy and vitality–to heal this wretched existence of mine.

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