The letter that changed everything arrived on Tuesday.On an ordinary morning in mid-April, the air smelled of washing powder and fresh grass.Harold Fry, freshly shaved, in a neat shirt and tie, sat at the dinner table.He had a slice of toast in his hand, but he had no intention of eating it, just staring out the kitchen window at the manicured lawn.In the middle of the lawn stands Maureen's liftable drying rack, and a small piece of green is tightly surrounded by the neighbor's wooden fence. "Harold!" Maureen yelled, over the sound of the vacuum cleaner, "Trust!" Harold wanted to go out for a walk too, but the only thing he could do now was mow the lawn, which he just cut yesterday .The vacuum cleaner suddenly fell silent, and after a while, Maureen walked into the kitchen with a letter in her hand and sat down opposite Harold.Maureen was silver-haired and slender, with a brisk walk.When they first met, the happiest thing for Harold was to make her laugh, watching her lean forward and back laughing with great joy when she was well-proportioned. "Here you are," Maureen said.He didn't react until she put the letter on the table and pushed it lightly, and the letter slid to Harold's hand and stopped.Both stared at the envelope.The envelope is pink. "It's a Berwickshire postmark."

He didn't know anyone who lived in Berwickshire.In fact, he didn't know many people anywhere. "Maybe I made a mistake?" "I don't think so. There's always a postmark." She picked up a slice of toast from the bread stand—Maureen liked it when it was cold and crunchy. Harold carefully examined the mysterious envelope.It wasn't the usual pink for bathroom sets, or the pink of the matching towels and toilet seat, which were often too bright and made Harold feel uneasy.The pink of this envelope is delicate and soft, like Turkish Delight.The words on the envelope were written with a ballpoint pen, and the scribbled and clumsy letters were squeezed together, as if written by a child in a hurry. "South of Harms, Kingsbridge Village, Forth Bridge Road, Mr H. Fry".He couldn't make out whose handwriting it was.

"Who is it?" Maureen said, passing a letter opener.He stuck the knife into the envelope and cut it open. "Be careful." Maureen reminded. Harold took out the letter, feeling Maureen staring at him.He adjusted his reading glasses.The letter was typed and addressed to a place he had never heard of: St. Bernardine Hospice. "Dear Harold: This letter may surprise you." His eyes jumped to the end of the letter. "Who is it?" Maureen asked again. "My God! It's Queenie Hennessy." Maureen picked up a small piece of butter and spread it evenly on the toast: "Queenie what?"

"She did it at the brewery, years ago. Don't you remember?" Maureen shrugged: "Why do I remember this, why do I need to remember people from so many years ago. Can you pass me the jam?" "She's from the finance department, and she's done a great job." "That's marmalade, Harold. It's red. See it with your eyes before you take it, so you don't keep picking the wrong thing." Harold quietly handed her the bottle she asked for, and read the letter again.Sure enough, it was written smoothly and neatly, not at all like the ghost characters on the envelope.He laughed for a moment, remembering that Queenie was always like this, she was meticulous in everything she did, and she was impeccable. "She still remembers you and says hello to you."

Maureen pursed her lips: "There was a guy on the radio who said that the French wanted to take advantage of our bread. The French didn't have enough, so they came here and bought us all. The guy said that we might be out of supply by summer. She paused. "Harold, what's the matter? Has something happened?" Harold said nothing.Suddenly he stood up, his mouth was slightly parted, and his face was pale.When he was finally able to speak, his voice was weak and distant: "She... got cancer. She wrote a letter to say goodbye." He wanted to say something, but he couldn't say a word, so he could only grope around. , finally pulled out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and blew his nose heavily, "I...well, my God!" Tears gradually filled my eyes.

It was quiet.Maybe a few minutes.Maureen swallowed and broke the silence. "I'm so sorry," she said. He moved slightly, trying to raise his head to give her a little response, but he didn't have the strength. "It's a nice day," she added, "how about pulling out the patio chairs?" But he just sat there quietly, not moving.Maureen silently packed up the dirty dishes and returned to the hall.After a while, the vacuum cleaner rang again. Harold felt a little out of breath, as if even moving a limb, or even a muscle, would burst out the complex emotions he was trying to suppress.How come twenty years have passed without even writing a single word to Queenie?Her image gradually came to mind, a petite dark-haired woman who had worked with him years ago.How old should she be...?sixty?And cancer, waiting for his final moments in Berwickshire.Incredible, he thought.Of all the places in the world, it was Berwick—although he had never been that far north.He looked out of the window into the garden and saw a plastic bag hanging from a laurel fence, blowing up and down in the wind, unable to break free.He put Queenie's letter in his pocket, pressed it lightly twice to make sure it was secure, and then stood up.

Maureen gently closed David's door and stood for a while, feeling his breath.She gently opened the blue curtains that she closed herself every night to see if there was any dust on the edge of the curtains hanging down to the window sill; then she carefully wiped his Cambridge photo in the silver frame and the black and white baby photo next to it.The room was cleaned every day because she was waiting for David to come back.No one knows when he will suddenly appear.In her heart, there will be a part of her waiting forever.Men don't understand what it's like to be a mother, the pain of loving so much that doesn't go away even when the child is gone.She thought of Harold downstairs and the pink letter again, and wished she could talk to David.She left David's room as quietly as she had entered.

Harold Fry dug out a few pages of letter paper and Maureen's ballpoint pen from a dresser drawer.What to say to a woman who is dying of cancer?He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, but the words "deeply sympathy" just didn't feel right, like buying a card from a store only after something unfortunate had happened, and it was too formal, It seemed he didn't really care that much.He tried to write: "Dear Miss Hennessy: I sincerely hope that your body recovers soon." Stopped to think about it, it was too reserved, and it was unlikely to happen, so he crumpled the paper and threw it away, and started again.He was never very good at expressing himself.The shock this news brought to him was so great that it was really hard to describe it in words; even if he had the ability, it seemed inappropriate to confide these things to an old friend who hadn't been in touch with him for twenty years.If he had been ill instead, Queenie would have known what to do.If only he had that much confidence in himself.

"Harold?" Maureen startled him.He thought she was still upstairs scrubbing, or talking to David.She took out the marigolds. "I'm answering Queenie's letter." "Answer?" She always liked to repeat his words. "Yes. Would you like to sign your name too?" "Come on. It's kind of weird to write to someone you don't know." Don't worry about gains and losses for rhetoric anymore, just simply write out what is in your heart. "Dear Queenie: Thank you for your letter. I'm really sorry to hear that. Best regards, Harold (Frye)." A bit weak, but that's about it.He quickly packed the letter, sealed the envelope, and copied the address of St. Bernardine's Hospice. "I'm going to the post office, and I'll be right back."

It was past eleven o'clock.Harold took his waterproof coat from the coat hook - Maureen liked it where he hung it - and opened the door to a gust of warm, salty air, and as soon as he lifted his feet his wife stopped he. "Will you be gone for a long time?" "I'll be back at the end of the street." She still looked up at him, with her dark green eyes, her slender chin lifted slightly.He wished he knew what to say to her, but it didn't; at least nothing would change the situation.He longed to touch her the way he used to, to rest his head on her shoulder and rest.But it is too late now. "See you later, Maureen." He closed the door carefully so as not to make too much noise.

Forthbridge Road is located on a hill in Kingsbridge, a good location in the mouth of real estate agents, with a stretch of rural landscape to enjoy, but the gardens of every household are tremblingly sloping towards the lower road. All the plants are tightly wrapped around the bamboo fence as if to save their lives.Harold strode down the rather steep concrete street, a little too fast, but he noticed five new dandelions.Maybe in the afternoon he will turn out the "West Fair" and listen to it.That would be great. Rex, who lived next door, saw him, waved to him and came over, stopping by the fence.Rex is not tall, with a small head and feet, and a big round belly in the middle. From time to time, he makes Harold worry that if he accidentally falls, he will roll down the hill like a bucket, stopping all the time. not come down.His wife Elizabeth had died six months earlier, around the time Harold retired.Since then, Rex has always loved to tell others how difficult life is, and he can't stop talking. "At least you can listen to it," said Maureen.It's just that Harold couldn't figure out whether her "you" was referring to everyone in general, or just to him. "Come out for a walk?" Rex asked. Harold tried to put on a "I don't have time right now" look, and said, half-jokingly, "Hey old friend, do you have anything to send?" "No one writes to me. After Elizabeth is gone, there are only leaflets left in the mailbox." Rex stared into the air, and Harold immediately realized that the conversation was going in a certain direction.He raised his eyes and glanced at the sky, and a few wisps of clouds floated high in the sky. "nice weather." "Yeah," Rex replied.There was a silence.He sighed heavily, "Elizabeth likes sunshine the most." He fell silent again. "Great day for weeding, old friend." "Yeah. Harold, will you be composting the mowing, or putting mulch over the plants?" "Mulch sticks to the soles of shoes, and Maureen doesn't like me bringing weeds into the house." Harold looked down at his sailing shoes, wondering why people wore them when they had no intention of going to sea. "Well, I have to go. I have to get there before the postman picks up the letter at noon." He waved the envelope in his hand, turned and walked away. For the first time in his life, Harold was disappointed to see the mailbox sooner than expected.He made a detour, but the mailbox was there, waiting for him at the corner of Forth Bridge Road.Harold lifted the letter to Queenie to the letter slot, stopped again, and looked back at the way he was walking. The independent houses are painted yellow, blue, and orange red, all of which are a little mottled by the years of washing.Some houses still retain the spires of the 1950s, and the decorative beams form a half-sun shape; some have small attics with inlaid stone slabs; modified.Harold and Maureen moved here as soon as they got married forty-five years ago, and the down payment on the house alone used up all of Harold's savings, and he didn't even have money to buy curtains and furniture.They are more reserved, neighbors have come and gone over the years, only Harold and Maureen have stayed here.There used to be a small vegetable field and a unique pond in front of the house; in summer, Maureen would make Indian-style chutney by herself, and David even raised small goldfish in the pond.There used to be a shed behind the house, with all kinds of gardening tools hanging in it, as well as coils of twine and rope, and the shed always smelled like manure.But all that is long gone.Even Davy's school - right next to his little room - has been leveled and turned into fifty red, blue and yellow houses with Georgian streetlights in front of them .But what had Harold done during those forty-five years? He thought of the letter to Queenie, and was ashamed of the feeble lines. He pictured himself back home, listening to Maureen calling for David; his life was the same, except that Queenie was leaving this world in Berwickshire.Harold suddenly couldn't help himself, the letter had been put into the dark letter slot, but he couldn't put it in anyway-he couldn't let go. Although there was no one around him, he suddenly said loudly: "Anyway, the weather is so nice today." Since he had nothing else to do, he could just take a stroll and go to the next postbox.Before he could change his mind, he turned the corner of Forth Bridge Road. It was not like Harold to be so impulsive, and he knew it himself.Since retiring, the days have passed and almost every day has been the same, only with tighter belts and more hair loss.He sleeps poorly and sometimes stays up all night.When another mailbox appeared in sight earlier than expected, he stopped again; as if something had started, although he didn't know what it was, but he was already doing it, and he couldn't stop.Beads of sweat were dripping on his forehead, and his blood vessels were throbbing restlessly because of anticipation.If he had gone to the post office in Fall Street, the letter would not have been posted until the next day. Harold continued to walk down the new housing estate, the warm sun covering the back of his head and shoulders.He glanced in the window as he passed by, sometimes it was empty, sometimes there were people, and once he met their eyes, Harold had a feeling that he had to leave quickly.Sometimes he also sees unexpected things, such as a porcelain statue, a vase, or even a large size, all of which are used by people to block external pollution and protect their inner softness.He tried to imagine how people would feel about Maureen and his life as they passed 13 Forthbridge Road, and suddenly realized they wouldn't know much because there were curtains in the house.As he walked towards the pier, the muscles in his thighs began to twitch.The tide had receded, and several small boats were moored on the potholed black river mud, lazily and faded.Harold staggered to an empty bench, sat down, and opened Queenie's letter. She still remembers.After so many years, she still remembers.But he remained unchanged, letting the years pass by, as if everything she did was meaningless.He didn't try to stop her, he didn't go after her, he didn't even say goodbye.Tears filled his eyes again, blurring the boundary between the sky and the road in front of him.In the confusion, there seemed to be a silhouette of a young mother and her child, holding ice cream cones in their hands like torches.She picked up the child and put it on the other side of the chair. "What a beautiful day." Harold tried not to sound like a crying old man.She didn't look up, and didn't agree, she just bent down and licked the melting ice cream in the child's hand to prevent the ice cream from dripping down.The boy looked at his mother, they were so close that they didn't move, as if they had become one. Harold tried to remember if he had ever tried eating ice cream with David on the pier.There should be, even if he couldn't successfully search for the memory in his mind.He must get this done: send the letter. The office workers on their lunch break were laughing with beers outside the Old Creek Hotel, and Harold barely looked at them.As he climbed the steep uphill of Fall Street, his mind was full of the mother, so absorbed in her own world and her child's that she ignored everyone else.He suddenly realized that it was Maureen who told David the recent situation of the two of them. It was Maureen who signed the word "Dad" at the end of all letters and cards for him, even the nursing home where his old father went. Maureen found it.Then a question arises - when Harold stands in front of the zebra crossing and pushes the pedestrian button - if she has been doing what Harold is supposed to do, then - "Who am I?" He just walks by After entering the post office, it didn't even stop.