In the name of love

This is the true love story of my grandparents.

They met in the city in 1935, when the street lights were dim and the Thames water was a pale gold. They were classmates and the few Chinese in the school at that time. Vast foreign land, obscure academic words, cold streets and warm mists, and she knew that above this gray, there was the glimmer of his eyes enough to ignite the whole world.

They fell in love.

My grandmother later said to me that it was the happiest time of her life. She remembered the library bench. She remembered him tapping on the glass at his apartment window late at night. She remembered him gently holding her hand as we walked in the park. In the summer of 1937, the sun was uncomfortably bright, the world was cracking, news was seeping in from newspapers, radio, letters from overseas, and the smell of war was looming like a shadow.

That fall, he decided to return home. "I want to go back." He spoke quietly, but she knew there was a burning fire in his voice. She didn't cry, she just looked at him, watched him pack, watched him leave in the misty morning light. She told herself over and over that the war would end, that they would meet again.

But little did she know that they would never see each other again.

The day he left, her body had quietly nurtured a life, she did not tell him, and will not have the opportunity to tell him. The war swallowed up all the news, the letters were gone, the smoke replaced the vows. She waited for years, and years, with frost on the ends of her hair, and the baby in her arms growing, and he never came back.

When my grandfather was gone, her world was quiet, time slowed down, and every street in London seemed to hide his shadow. She began to write letters, one after another, every word was missing, but each letter fell into silence, no one answered.

We found these letters in my grandmother's house when she died.

Winter 1938

London

My love,

I don't know if this letter will fall into your hands, or like those letters that have been written before, it will be swallowed up by time and disappear on your way home. But I'm still writing because it's the only way I can still speak to you.

Winter is coming again in London, and it is colder than last year. The water of the Thames is thinly frozen, and the wind sweeps through the streets like the dead leaf you once held in the palm of your hand. I still live in our familiar place, every morning when I open the window, I can't help but look at the corner, as if you would suddenly appear in the morning fog, with your usual smile, gently calling my name.

But, honey, you've been gone for a year. You said you would come back, but the road is much longer than we thought.

School continues, and I still go into the library where we spent time, open your favorite book, run my fingertips through the old notes you left behind, pretend you're still around, pretend you're just too busy with school to answer. But the world had changed, and the newspapers in the streets were full of news of the war, and I was afraid to read it, and afraid not to. There you are. Are you okay? Is the war closing in on you? Do you,same as me, dream of each other at night?

I have a secret that I've been wanting to tell you, but I don't know how to tell you. I always thought that one day you would suddenly come back and I could say it to your face and tell you, my love, that our child was already in this world. He has bright eyes and long eyelashes just like you, and every time I look at him, I see you again. But he never knew his father, and I don't know how to describe you to him.

Honey, you have to live！ Do come back！ You promised me.

Late at night, the light is dim, the wind outside the window is beating on the glass, my fingers are frozen, and the words are not very neat. But I am still writing these words, even if this letter never reaches you, I still want you to know that there is someone in the world who is waiting for you.

Please come back safely.

Your lover

Spring 1945

Shanghai

My love,

This letter, like the dozens before it, may fall into the endless silence, into the address that the postman no longer delivers, into everything torn by the war, into the deepest folds of time, and never reach you again.

But I'm still going to write. Even if there is no reply from you in the world, I will still write.

Spring has come. Shanghai's trees are putting out new leaves. People in the streets are laughing and celebrating the end of the war. As I stood in the crowd, I heard firecrackers bursting and red paper flapping in the wind. I think of you, I think of you said that you like spring best, that the spring wind is soft, with the taste of new life. I close my eyes, let the wind blow across my face, as if so, I can touch you, touch the return date you once promised.

But you haven't come back yet.

Our child is almost eight years old, he is running in the yard, his laugh is clear, his eyes are like you when you are young. He asked me, "Mom, when is Dad coming back?" I was stunned, for a while, and then gently told a lie for you: "Soon, when the war is completely extinguished, when the ship docks, when he finds his way home." But, my dear, I don't believe it myself.

The war is over, but where are you?

I used to run to the docks and stand in the bustling crowd, watching a batch of returning soldiers, their wives into their arms, tears falling on their shoulders, as if they had finally waited for the soul of half a life. I searched in the crowd for a long time, until the sky darkened, until the crowd dispersed, until the last ship left the port, I still did not see you.

My love, the war is over, but my waiting is not.

I'd like to believe that you're just stuck somewhere far away, with undelivered mail and a hard way home. Or maybe you just got lost and forgot your way home. But maybe you really are gone. But all this, I can't think, can't believe. Because as long as I don't believe, as long as I'm waiting, you're still here, you're not gone, you're still somewhere in this world.

Honey, did you hear that? If you are still alive, please write back to me, even if it is only one word, let me know that you are still in this world.Let me know that these years, my waiting is not in vain. Let me know that spring is really coming and you're really coming home.

If you're gone... If this letter is destined never to be read again, so be it. Then let me lie to myself again, lie to myself that you are still there, lie to myself that you just forget the address, lie to myself that you will open the door in the morning one day, with the return period that I once looked forward to, with all the love that has not been said in this world, call me softly: "I am back."

My love, I've been waiting for you.

Love you forever,

Your lover

A year later, my grandfather's comrades in the army finally got in touch with my grandmother.

They brought their grandfather's belongings, a military uniform, a diary and a letter.

Grandma died with this letter in her hand after many years.

The contents of the letter are as follows.

Winter 1945

Front line

My love,

By the time you read this, I'll probably be dead. Death should be fear, but at the moment I only feel light, like unloading a long and heavy wait, like i can finally miss you quietly in the dark.

The night before I left London, I promised you that we would meet again. I remember you holding my hand, fingertips slightly cool, eyes filled with I dare not look at the sadness. Instead of crying, you whispered, "You'll come back, won't you?"I nodded, like a child who believed in vows, thinking that if I made a promise, the world would do what it wanted. But, honey, I was wrong. I can never go back.

In my ears, is the sound of comrades falling one by one.The breath of death is heavy as a never-ending rain, and I have finally realized that some roads, once set on, there is no return.I'm not afraid of dying anymore. The only thing that scares me is that I feel more guilty about you than I do about dying.I owe you a lifetime of companionship, and I can't pay it back.

Dear, if separation is a reality we must accept, I know you will be sad, will cry, imagine if the outcome is different, we will have what the future.But I want to ask you, don't let the missing become shackles, don't let the waiting become futile.Please live, live well, live more firmly than ever.

Forget me if you can.Forget the man who did not keep his promise and did not go home, forget the man who left you too much regret, forget the future that I did not fulfill. If not, then take my share, together to see the four seasons of the world, listen to the post-war wind blowing through the calm streets, to finish the road we should have walked together.

My love, I miss you so much. Want to hold your hand again, want to hear you call my name again, want to see you waiting for me at the window.But the wind was blowing so fast, and the sky was so dark, that I had no time.

If there is a next life, I will fight everything, back to you.I'll never leave again. I won't leave you alone in this endless wait.

In this life, I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise. But I still say, still let this letter carry my soul to you, let you know -

I love you.

Love you forever,

Your husband

I can't imagine how Grandma felt when she read this letter.She never said it when she was alive.

And my grandmother, who never married, raised my father alone.

She believed that somewhere she could not see, he must be waiting for her.

They should be together somewhere I can't see by now.....

In the name of love.