The Rain won't Last Forever

Oliver and Luna both looked taken aback.

“Buying a plot in this cemetery?”

Oliver stepped forward and grabbed my wrist, forcing me to stop.

“Your grandmother’s far away on Pearl Shore Isle and your parents perished at sea. Who are you buying a plot for?”

I managed to push down the blood that had been rising in my throat, hid the photo I had been ready to place on the gravestone and spoke weakly.

“I just want to set up a memorial for my parents here.”

Oliver’s face, inches from mine, showed no sign of panic or urgency.

Instead, it was a mask of pure hatred and revulsion, his features contorted with fierce disdain.

“Anyone can buy this plot, but you— you’re not worthy.”

Oliver coldly wrenched his hand away.

“I absolutely forbid anyone connected to you from being near my family.”

I let out a bitter laugh.

Moments ago, I had foolishly clung to the hope that he might show a shred of concern or at least ask about my arrangements.

Even a simple, polite inquiry would have sufficed, given our shared history.

But it was clear now—after everything, only hatred was left between us.

Jack suddenly stepped away from me and grabbed Oliver by the collar.

“Enough! Oliver, I’ve put up with you for far too long.”

Jack’s imposing stature and commanding voice carried a powerful authority.

He roared, “I don’t want to get physical in front of your mother, but understand this: we don’t need your permission for anything we choose to do.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself, ex-husband.”

Without Jack's support, I felt my frail body on the verge of collapsing, my head pounding with a dull ache, swaying like a zombie.

Come on, you big fool, come back and help me out!

I couldn’t understand why everything became so complicated as soon as Oliver got involved.

All I wanted was to leave in peace.

With a weary sigh, I took a step forward and lightly patted Jack’s arm.

“Let’s forget it. Let’s go.”

I weakly turned back to the cemetery agent who had brought us to check out the plot of land.

“Sorry, I no longer want this plot. Are there any other available ones? Preferably as far away as possible.”

At my mention of "as far away as possible," Oliver’s face visibly darkened.

Meanwhile, the agent's expression grew increasingly troubled.

“Miss Enders, with the cemetery space being so tight, this is the only plot left that hasn’t been reserved.”

I hadn’t signed a contract with the agent yet.

I definitely didn’t want to be haunted by Oliver’s grimace every year on Angela’s memorial day.

If I ended up buried next to his mother, who’s to say he wouldn’t one day smash my headstone if he felt like it?

With no visitors, my grave would just become a neglected, sad ruin.

After Jack dropped me off at home, he stayed silent, lost in thought.

I leaned back against the mattress.

“What’s wrong? Are you troubled about something?” I asked.

Jack seemed to snap back to reality.

He responded, “No, I was just reflecting on today’s events. How about we check out other cemeteries tomorrow?”

I patted him reassuringly with a light smile.

“No problem. I can hold on, no doubt I can last another two months. I refuse to believe I can’t find a single plot in that time!”

As soon as I finished speaking, Jack's eyes turned red.

He paused, holding the peeler.

The man then muttered under his breath, “Liar.”

I was born on a tiny island, miles and miles away from Nightfall City. The islanders had fished for generations and my parents followed in that long tradition. Our life was simple and rhythmic—up with the dawn and to bed with the twilight.

That day, the weather was nothing short of perfect. The breeze was gentle, the sun was radiant and the sky stretched out, endless and clear. The sea shimmered under the sunlight, sparkling like countless tiny, scattered jewels.

As usual, my parents prepared their fishing gear, set off in their old, sputtering boat and waved cheerfully as they departed.

They were in high spirits, excited about the recent bounty of fat mantis shrimp, which promised a good price.

Little did anyone know, the storm would arrive so swiftly and fiercely.

The waves were too violent; no one on the island dared risk going out to search for them.

I clung desperately to my grandmother, feeling utterly powerless.

I prayed fervently, over and over, for the heavens to spare my parents.

Yet, fate has a way of mocking our deepest wishes.

It was in that moment that I first truly grasped the cold reality of fate.

Perhaps some things are predestined, beyond the reach of our efforts to change.

After my parents died, I developed a deep-seated fear of the sea.

This fear led me to reject the option of a sea burial after cremation, opting instead for the most traditional burial.

I feared the bottomless depths, where the darkness swallowed all life.

That night, after returning from the cemetery.

I had another nightmare.

In my dream, I was drowning in deep water, struggling to breathe as my chest was crushed with pain and my limbs grew weak.

Beneath the surface, two shadowy figures, their faces indistinguishable, were pulling at my legs, preventing me from surfacing.

I woke up in a cold sweat, the metallic taste of fear lingering in my throat.

Jack hurried to my bedside, reaching out to me with concern.

“Emmy, open your mouth.”

I obediently did as I was told, letting the dark blood I had been holding back all day spill into his palm.

Jack carefully cleaned his hands, then came back to my side, his voice tinged with sorrow.

“Why have you been holding it in?”

I offered a sheepish smile and turned away, unwilling to explain.

But with the night growing darker, sleep eluded me.

Jack sat quietly by my bedside, illuminated only by the dim yellow light of the lamp.

Lately, I often woke up in the middle of the night, coughing up large amounts of blood and my sleep was restless.

So he stayed by my side, always within reach as soon as I opened my eyes.

He truly was a remarkably professional person.

It was worth every penny I spent to buy a bit of peace of mind before the end.

Perhaps it was because I couldn’t sleep or maybe my curiosity about him was too strong, but I decided to strike up a conversation.

“Jack, why did you choose to become a hospice caregiver?”

He was young, with the kind of looks that are popular on screen these days.

No matter how you look at it, his tall, striking figure seemed more suited for modeling or a career as a rising star.

Jack was silent for a moment before he began to speak.

His deep, gentle voice took on a misty quality in the night as he unfolded a sorrowful story.

“On my birthday, my mom had ordered a birthday cake from the store and asked my dad to pick it up after work.”

“But it was a torrential downpour that day—rain pouring heavily, thunder crashing and trees being uprooted by the wind.”

“Because of that, my dad got into a car accident on his way to the bakery and died on the spot.”

The young man's voice caught and he sighed deeply before continuing.

“My mom blamed herself for everything. She thought if she hadn’t asked my dad to pick up the cake, none of this would have happened.”

The corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

“But she could have easily blamed me instead, couldn’t she? Yet she didn’t. Instead, she bought paraquat, a highly toxic herbicide, when I wasn’t looking, planning to end her life in a joint suicide with my dad.”

Jack’s eyes reddened as he struggled to keep his voice steady.

“But paraquat doesn’t kill immediately. It slowly and irreversibly damages the heart and lungs, giving enough time for regret but no chance to undo the damage.”

“She held on in the ICU for seven days. There was one miraculous moment when she regained her senses and grasped my hand, crying nonstop.”

“She said she regretted it—that she shouldn’t have left me alone.”

“But it was too late.”

“By the time she was about to leave this world, she couldn’t speak anymore. She took a piece of paper and tremblingly wrote me a final message.”

I held back my tears and asked him, “What did she write?”

Jack lifted his gaze to meet mine, clearly taken aback. He quickly shifted to a more playful tone.

“Well, a dying person doesn’t exactly have the energy to write clearly. It was so messy that it was barely legible.”

He continued, “Fortunately, a family later helped sponsor me, allowing me to finish my education. After graduating from college, I heard that hospice care had a decent salary, so here I am.”

“There isn’t really any special reason.”

I had thought Jack took this job because of his parents, but it turned out to be such a mundane reason.

Still, this was the first time he had opened up about his past to me.

I wiped away the tears at the corners of my eyes, slowly extended my hand from beneath the covers and gently patted his head, stroking and rubbing it.

“You’ve done so well, Jack, taking care of yourself all this time.”

Jack went still, a trace of irritation in his voice as he grumbled.

Yet, beneath my hand, his head tilted closer, drawn to the warmth of my touch.

I couldn’t help but smile. He was such a disingenuous kid, pretending to resist when he clearly reveled in the affection.

Unable to sleep, I lay there awake and Jack seized the moment to probe into my life.

“So, the man you saw today—your ex-husband—what made you marry him in the first place?”

“The man we saw today, your ex-husband—why did you marry him in the first place?”

I was taken aback.

“Why else would I get married? I loved him, so I married him.”

Jack shot me a disdainful look, as if silently criticizing my judgment.

“No, you have to believe me, he wasn’t always like this. There was a gentleness about him that made it impossible not to love him.”

Jack interrupted me.

“And now? Do you still love him?”

His question sent me deep into thought.

Did I still love Oliver?

If marriage had been because of love, did that mean divorce was due to its absence?

I thought, in the end, I wasn't really in a position to answer that question.