When the Spring Wind Comes

After two months of complete silence, Rain on a Sunny Day suddenly claimed the number one trending spot online.

It began when a close friend of the author posted a brief statement on social media.

This book is a young woman's private diary. Before she passed, she asked me to publish it, leaving me with only one request.

"She said, 'I hope if he ever reads this, he'll finally stop hating me.'"

Will sat at the dining table, casually scrolling past the trending post. He didn't even tap it, setting his phone aside face down.

Across from him, Renee was meticulously studying the menu, her brow slightly furrowed as if she were solving a complex equation.

"Is the wild mushroom soup good here?"

"It is."

Renee nodded, satisfied, and looked up to smile at him.

He closed the menu for her and smoothly reached out to slide her chair an inch closer to the table.

Renee had her head down, arranging her napkin, so she didn't notice.

But I did.

He used to do that exact same thing for me.

Except back then, I was still alive.

My name is Mamie. I have been dead for eight years.

Before I died, I spent two years in prison. Not long after I was released, I slipped away.

Leukemia, a damp, drafty cell, a scratchy wool blanket: a fever burned for three months before it finally consumed me.

I have been tethered to Will's side, a silent ghost, for eight long years.

Will and I met in high school.

That winter, the city was hit by the heaviest blizzard of the year. The school's heating broke, and we could see our own breath inside the classroom.

He sat directly behind me. During a break, he swiped the small metal hand warmer from my desk. When I turned around to demand it back, he said with utter seriousness, "Your hands aren't cold. Mine are."

"How do you know my hands aren't cold?" I asked.

He reached out, squeezed my hand briefly, and let go. "See? Warmer than mine."

He handed the hand warmer back to me, but then rested his own hands on top of it to steal some heat. "You don't mind, do you?"

By the time he asked, he was already soaking up the warmth.

"What's the point of asking now?" I grumbled.

He smiled, a quiet, boyish grin. "No point. Just polite."

Later, I realized he was just that kind of person.

He would do things first and only ask if you minded afterward. He would barge into your life and then ask if he was welcome.

Eventually, he left a folded slip of paper on my desk. It had only six words: I like you. Do you?

I took my pen and wrote beneath it: I do too.

He folded the paper carefully, slipping it into his chest pocket. For the rest of the afternoon, he sat incredibly straight, as if he were trying desperately to keep a burst of joy from bubbling out of him.

Sitting in front of him, I couldn't stop smiling.

He had this habit: he always drank his soup incredibly slowly.

Whenever I tried to rush him, he would say there was no hurry, and that burning your tongue was no fun.

"It tastes terrible once it's cold," I would argue.

And he would reply, "If it's cold, I'll drink it. If it's hot, you drink it. It's a perfect match."

He had an old injury on his left shoulder. Every time the weather turned damp and rainy, it would ache, though he never complained.

I only found out one rainy day when I caught him secretly massaging his shoulder.

I went to the pharmacy and bought medicated heat patches, but he refused to use them, calling it dramatic.

"Are you going to put it on, or do I have to force you?" I demanded.

He looked at me, then quietly submitted. "Put it on."

From that day on, whenever rain was in the forecast, I made sure to buy the patches in advance.

One day, he asked, "How do you always remember?"

"Because you never do," I answered.

He finished applying the patch, and after a quiet moment, he murmured, "Mamie."

"Yeah?"

"Always remember."

I thought he was talking about the patches.

It was only after I ended up in prison that I realized he wasn't talking about the patches at all.

He meant he wanted me to always be there.

But I couldn't stay.

All I could do, as I lay burning with fever in that damp, dark cell, was hold onto every memory of him, keeping them safe before I had to leave this world ahead of him.

The waiter served the mushroom soup. Renee leaned in to inhale the aroma, her eyes crinkling.

"It smells absolutely amazing."

Will ladled a bowl for her, sliding it gently across the table. "Careful. It's hot."

I stood by the table, watching them, and felt a dull, familiar ache swell in my chest.

The restaurant was quiet. Outside, the streetlights stretched their shadows long across the floor.

Renee suddenly spoke up. "Will, I've been reading this book lately called Rain on a Sunny Day. It's a young woman's diary, and it's beautifully written. Would you like to read it too?"

Will placed some food onto her plate, his voice completely flat. "You're pregnant, sweetie. You shouldn't read things like that. Emotional rollercoasters aren't good for the baby."

Renee nodded and dropped the subject.

I stared at his lowered eyelashes for a long time.

He hadn't even grasped the significance of the title.

As their dinner neared its end, the voices of two women at the neighboring table drifted over.

"Did you read Rain on a Sunny Day? That poor girl's story is heartbreaking."

"I know, I cried so much. She was locked up for two years, and after she got out, she passed away before she could even see him one last time."

Will picked up his water glass and took a slow sip.

I saw his knuckles whiten slightly against the glass.

It was there for only a split second, then gone.

After dinner, Will went to settle the bill, leaving Renee waiting alone at the table.

She looked down at her phone, the trending post still open on her screen.

In the photo, the girl's smile was soft and faint.

Renee stared at the picture, her brow furrowing slightly.

She felt as if she had seen this girl somewhere before.

Was it an illustration from the book, or was it something else?

"All set. Let's go."

Will returned from the register, snapping Renee out of her thoughts.

She stood up, took his arm, and walked out.

As she passed the spot where I stood, she suddenly turned her head, casting one final, lingering glance toward the photo on her screen.

Then she pulled her gaze away, stepping with him into the cool night air.

I watched her retreating back, a heavy dread settling in my chest.

She had recognized me.

The next morning, Will accompanied Renee to her prenatal checkup.

He held her hand the entire time, listening intently as the doctor explained every detail of the ultrasound.

When the checkup ended, Will went to the front desk to handle the paperwork, leaving Renee to wait in the lounge area.

The television in the waiting room was playing a morning show about literature.

"The book we're discussing today, Rain on a Sunny Day, is a diary written in prison by a young woman who served two years for someone else before passing away shortly after her release."

"The most heartbreaking part is that the person she saved still has no idea she went to prison in his place."

"She wrote in her diary that on the day she was released, she stood at the gates for a long time, debating whether to find him. Ultimately, she chose not to."

"She said: 'He doesn't know what happened. Telling him would only bring him pain, so it's better to just leave it like this.'"

I stood in the corner of the waiting room, not looking at Renee.

Instead, my mind drifted back to the days before those two years.

It happened eleven days after my leukemia diagnosis.

Will's company ran into severe legal trouble. It wasn't his fault; his business partner had fled, leaving Will's signature on a fraudulent document.

He called me that night, his voice dangerously calm. "Mamie, I might have to go away for a while. The lawyer says it could be two years."

I sat in the hospital corridor for hours. The diagnosis was still tucked in my bag: Leukemia. Confirmed. Prognosis highly uncertain.

I sat there thinking until the sun went down.

Two years.

If he went to prison for two years, his career and his company would be ruined, and he would come out only to face a girlfriend who was already dying.

So I called his lawyer. "I have some information I want to discuss regarding the case."

I had a way to take the blame. The price was two years.

The lawyer had asked me, "Does Will know about this?"

"No," I replied. "And he never will."

When Will called me later, saying there was a sudden turn of events and asking if I knew anything, I lied. "I don't know. Maybe there was a problem with the evidence. Don't worry about it, just wait for the outcome."

Hanging up, I stared at my medical report.

In two years, I would likely be dead anyway.

So he would never have to find out.

I thought disappearing quietly was the kindest way to end it.

I never realized that to him, my disappearance would be a wound that never healed.

"I hope he knows she didn't just run away," the TV host said.

I stood there, a heavy lump forming in my throat.

Will.

I didn't run away.

I just didn't know how to tell you where I was going.

Renee sat with her head lowered, her phone screen glowing, though she wasn't looking at it.

Will returned after finishing the paperwork, and they walked out together.

As they passed the television, Will's pace slowed.

He turned his head, casting a brief glance at the screen.

"I hope he knows she didn't just run away."

He pulled his gaze back, pushing open the heavy glass doors of the clinic.

His steps were steady.

But I saw his hand linger on the door handle for a full second before he finally pushed it open.

After lunch, Will drove Renee home, explaining that he had some urgent documents to handle at the office and would return by evening.

Renee stood on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye, then headed inside.

He waited until the elevator doors closed before turning toward the parking garage.

But halfway there, he stopped.

He stood in the empty corridor for a very long time.

Then he pulled out his phone, opening the search bar.

I held my breath, watching his fingers hover over the keyboard.

They stayed there, trembling slightly, for a long time.

Ultimately, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and kept walking.

That night, Will sat alone in the study.

Renee was already asleep, and the house was dead silent.

He reached into the very back of his desk drawer, pulling out a worn manila envelope. The edges were frayed, and the seal had a thin rip, as if it had been opened and then hastily pressed back down.

He placed the envelope on the desk, staring at it.

In the bottom right corner, my name was written in tiny, elegant script.

It was my handwriting.

Will reached out, his fingertips stopping just short of the envelope's edge.

Standing beside the desk, my heart hammered in my chest.

Will, open it.

It says I didn't do those things.

It says I didn't run away.

His hand hovered there for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, he pulled his hand back.

He placed the envelope back into the drawer, pushed it shut, and locked it.

That letter was something I had written before going to prison, intending to mail it to him, but I never did.

I didn't know how he had gotten hold of it.

I had written: Will, I didn't do those things, but I can't explain it. Don't wait for me.

I thought that by not sending it, he would never have to know.

Yet he had kept that letter locked in his drawer for eight long years.

He had never thrown it away.

Will had a close friend from high school named Jared.

That afternoon, Jared came to visit, immediately sliding his phone across the desk the moment he sat down.

"Have you seen this?"

Will glanced down. It was the trending page for Rain on a Sunny Day.

He pushed the phone back. "Not interested."

Jared frowned. "Will, don't you want to know what actually happened back then?"

"We are not discussing this."

The room fell quiet.

The television on the wall was playing the news, reporting the weekly bestseller list.

"In first place, Rain on a Sunny Day, a poignant memoir about..."

Will picked up the remote and shut the television off.

They drank in silence for a while, but Jared ultimately couldn't hold back.

"She didn't leave you the way you think she did, Will. It's all written in the book. If you just read it, you'll understand."

"Understand what?" Will's voice was entirely flat. "I waited for her for three months, Jared. She didn't leave me a single word."

"But the story you believe is a lie."

"That's enough."

He stood up, grabbing his coat.

"She left, and that's all that matters to me."

With that, he walked out.

The night wind was howling, and he walked quickly, as if trying to outrun the thoughts chasing him.

Reaching the parking lot, he leaned against the car door, looking up at the dark sky.

Back when he was waiting for me, I was burning with fever in that damp cell, constantly dreaming of him standing in the cold, waiting.

In those dreams, I tried to run to him, but my legs wouldn't move.

Only later did I realize those weren't just dreams.

He pulled his car keys from his pocket, holding them tightly, but didn't open the door.

He just stood there under the dim parking lot light, staring blankly into the distance.

Finally, he lowered his head, whispering a single sentence into the dark.

"Mamie, where did you go?"

It wasn't an angry accusation.

It was just a lonely man asking a question to a ghost who couldn't answer.

I stood right beside him, my throat tight.

Will.

I'm right here.

I've always been here.

He got into the car and drove out of the lot.

Passing a bookstore, he saw a display of Rain on a Sunny Day in the illuminated window.

The car slowed down for a brief second.

Only a second, before he accelerated again.

When he got home, Renee was waiting on the sofa. She hung up his coat and led him to the kitchen. "I warmed up some soup for you. Drink it before you go to sleep."

Will sat down, watching her busy profile.

Renee turned around with the bowl, freezing when she caught his gaze.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He lowered his head and took a sip.

Renee sat across from him, hesitating. "Will, about that book..."

"Let's not talk about it," he said softly. "Finish your soup and get some sleep."

Renee closed her mouth.

Will walked into the bedroom.

Renee remained at the table, motionless.

Only after a long time did she pick up her phone, dialing a number and keeping her voice hushed.

"Mom, he still doesn't know about the book, but I'm afraid we can't hide it much longer."

The next day, Will went to his office to handle some paperwork.

His assistant walked in to deliver coffee, placing a book on the corner of the desk.

"Mr. Collins asked me to give this to you. He said it's incredibly popular right now and highly recommended it."

It was Rain on a Sunny Day.

He didn't touch it.

Throughout the entire morning, the book remained on the corner of the desk. He signed documents, held meetings, and made phone calls, never once letting his gaze drift toward it.

As midday approached, he finally spoke. "Take this book away."

"But Mr. Collins said..."

"Take it away."

After the afternoon meeting, two colleagues were chatting in the hallway.

"The saddest part is when she wrote about standing outside the gates on her release day, wondering if she should find him, but ultimately deciding not to."

"Why didn't she go?"

"She said he had no idea what had happened to her. Telling him would only bring him pain, so she decided to let it go."

Will walked out of the conference room, passing right by them.

His pace faltered for a fraction of a second.

But he didn't stop, continuing back to his office.

Sitting in his chair, he didn't immediately return to work.

He just sat there, staring out the window.

After a long time, he opened his drawer and pulled out the worn manila envelope.

He placed it on the desk, staring at it.

This time, his fingers touched the seal.

He paused.

I held my breath.

Will, open it.

His fingers slowly moved down, grasping the edge of the seal.

Just then, his phone vibrated.

It was a text from Renee.

"Will, what do you want for dinner? I can come pick you up after work."

He stared at the screen for a long time.

Finally, he placed the envelope back into the drawer and locked it.

He picked up his phone to reply: "No need, I'll drive home myself."

I watched the locked drawer, a heavy despair settling deep in my chest.

So close.

Every single time, it was so close.

That evening, Will went to the grocery store alone.

Renee had been craving strawberries, so he spent a long time carefully selecting two of the best cartons.

While waiting in the checkout line, his eyes drifted to a display of bestsellers near the register.

Rain on a Sunny Day was stacked in the most prominent spot, its cover facing out.

Will reached over, picked up a copy, and flipped it open to the first page.

"Today is my first day here. The cell is damp, and the blankets are stiff. I didn't tell him where I am, and I don't plan to. But I don't know why, every time I close my eyes, I see him waiting for me."

Will's finger trembled.

The line moved forward.

But he didn't move.

He kept reading.

"Day 17. I heard it's snowing outside. I wonder if anyone reminded him to use his heat patches. His old injury always flares up when it snows."

"Day 41. I have a fever. I was delirious and called his name out loud. My cellmates teased me for a long time."

His breathing slowed as he flipped the page.

"Day 63. Someone visited me today and brought oranges. I ate one, but it wasn't very sweet, which made me think of him. He hates oranges because they're too sour, always lecturing me whenever I bought them. I wonder if anyone is eating dinner with him now."

The cashier called out, "Sir, you're next."

Will didn't hear.

He kept flipping the pages.

"Day 90. I'm out. The wind is freezing today. I stood at the gates for a long time, wondering if I should find him. Ultimately, I didn't. He doesn't know what happened these past two years, and I don't plan on telling him. Let's just leave it at this."

"Sir?"

He ignored the cashier entirely, flipping to the final pages.

The handwriting there was shaky and uneven, written with a trembling hand.

"My health is failing; I don't think I have much time left. I still don't plan on telling him the truth. Not because I don't want to, but because it's pointless now. It would only make him miserable."

"Let it be."

"Will, I didn't abandon you."

"I just couldn't tell you where I was going."

Will stared at that final line.

For a long time, he didn't turn the page.

Slowly, he flipped to the back cover.

In the bottom left corner, the publisher had printed a tiny biography.

"Author: Mamie Lin. Born... Died eight years ago in the spring, at the age of twenty-three."

The grocery store's intercom continued to blare advertisements.

Will stood there, completely frozen.

I hovered beside him, watching him stare at those words for what felt like an eternity.

Then, he raised his head.

His gaze swept past the registers, past the bookshelves, locking directly onto the empty space where I was standing.

I gasped.

His eyes were entirely bloodshot.

We were separated by eight years, by a truth he had never known, by all the words I had never gotten to say.

Yet, he looked straight at me, his eyes locking with mine.