I'll Meet You Where the Ocean Ends

The green train rumbled along the tracks, poplar trees outside rushing past. I leaned against the window, clutching a yellowed photo; the man in it smiled, showing a toothy grin, with rolling blue waves behind him. Only three months left before my life ends. This time, going to the seaside, I want to see one last time the sea that Trace Woods once said could "hold all the grievances." Footsteps came from the train car connection. I didn't look up until a familiar male voice sounded beside me. "Wanda Taylor?" I looked up and met Chambers Louis' eyes. Seven years without seeing each other, he had changed a lot—wearing a tailored black suit, a luxury watch on his wrist, with his hair meticulously slicked back. He radiated the polished air of a new business elite. "It's me." He paused for a moment, then sat across from me. His tone carried an undeniable boastfulness: "Never thought I'd run into you here. How have the past seven years been? I heard you took the compensation money and moved abroad. Life must've been good, huh?" I looked at the diamond ring on his ring finger; the style was exactly the same as the fake one he bought me back then. "Not so good," I said, tucking the photo back into my chest, "but leaving you is the only thing I've never regretted in my life." The smile on his face froze. He pulled out his cell phone from his briefcase and unlocked the screen — it was a wedding photo of him and Cindy Lincoln. Cindy wore a white wedding dress, leaning into his arms, smiling softly. "I've been married to Cindy for three years," he said, swiping through his phone to show me their villa and sports car. "Now I have my own company. I'm no longer tangled up with gangs like before. Life's steady and peaceful. If you regret it, just tell me—I can still help you out." I tugged at the corner of my mouth, but didn't say a word. The train pulled into the station, and I grabbed my canvas bag, ready to get off. He caught up to me and reached for my arm. "Where are you going? Let me take you—we should have a proper talk." I dodged his hand and stood on the platform as the wind brought the rusty smell of the iron tracks. "I'm going to see the sea," I looked him in the eyes and said, deliberate and clear, "to pay tribute to Trace Woods—the migrant worker who died beneath the scaffolding at the construction site saving me." His face instantly went pale, and his step faltered. "Trace Woods? You didn't go abroad? Then what about the 10 million dollars compensation money...?" "Where were that 10 million dollars?" I cut him off, my voice soft but carrying seven years of coldness. "That was a lie made up by Cindy. You really believe it?"