My Deceased Wife Won't Let Me Go

After Shirley Quentin's funeral, I returned alone to the empty house. The air still carried the scent of the aromatherapy she used, but now it felt piercingly sharp. I sat on the sofa, staring at her photo on the coffee table, my fingertips icy cold. The accident came too suddenly. The night before, she was still laughing, promising to stew pork rib soup for me; the next day, we were separated forever by death. The police said the driver who caused the accident was drunk; Shirley died instantly at the scene. I spent three days handling the funeral arrangements, utterly exhausted in body and soul. Today, I finally gathered the courage to start sorting through her belongings. Her walk-in closet was huge, filled with all sorts of clothes—most of which I had bought with her. I folded each piece carefully, tears streaming down uncontrollably. When I folded a cream-colored trench coat, a piece of paper slipped out of the pocket. I picked it up—it was a house gift agreement. The donor was Shirley Quentin; the recipient was Howard Lloyd. The house was in an upscale neighborhood in the southern part of the city; I had never heard Shirley mention it. A chill crept up from my feet, and my fingers gripped the contract until they turned white. Howard Lloyd was Shirley Quentin's college classmate. I'd met him a few times; he always wore faded shirts and said his family was poor. Shirley often helped him out. I always thought it was just classmates helping each other—I never expected she actually gave him an apartment. "Don't let Jack Dawson find out..." A faint voice whispered in my ear, like Shirley's murmuring. I suddenly looked up; the room was empty. Was it a hallucination? I rubbed my temples and kept flipping through the contract. The signing date was six months ago—exactly when Shirley said the company was sending her on a business trip out of town. So she wasn't going on a business trip after all; she was dealing with matters related to this apartment. "That was Howard Lloyd's life-saving money... His mother is gravely ill..." That voice came again, clearer than before. I looked around, but there was still no one. I was certain I heard right—that was Shirley Quentin's voice. I stood up and walked to the window, staring down at the bustling street below. Could it be... I didn't dare think any further, yet I couldn't stop my thoughts from racing. I took out my phone and dialed the lawyer. "Lawyer Deer, I want to ask: if one party gives away marital property to someone else without the other's consent, is that valid?" Lawyer Deer on the other end of the phone hesitated for a moment, then said, "Mr. Dawson, in this kind of situation, it's generally invalid. You can request to revoke the gift and reclaim the property." After hanging up, I let out a sigh of relief. No matter why Shirley Quentin did this, half of this house belongs to me. I can't just let it be handed over for nothing. "Jack, don't..." Shirley's voice was anxious, like she was trying to stop me. I sneered coldly and ignored her. She's already gone, and she's still thinking about that Howard Lloyd. Clutching the contract, I walked into the study and pulled out our marriage certificate and property papers. These are all the results of Shirley Quentin and me struggling together; they can't just be wasted by her. After tidying up, I walked into the living room and looked at Shirley Quentin's photo. "Shirley, you've really let me down." I whispered.