My husband told me,
“Just try to finish this month, and then my whole family will move back to my hometown to live near my parents, and I don’t have to go abroad hard.”

Listening to him, my heart was relieved, for several nights I kept dreaming of the family reunion. But… for 3 days, I couldn’t call him, and I didn’t get a reply. I consoled myself that he must have been busy working the night shift, that he must have forgotten to charge his phone.

This morning, I was taking my child to school, when suddenly the phone rang. On the other end of the line, a trembling voice reported the news of a lightning strike:
“I… you go under the bridge right away, he… something happened!”

My heart seemed to burst, my limbs were shaking. I hurriedly sent my child to the neighbors, driving like a lunatic. When I arrived, the scene in front of me made me collapse:

He lay there, right under the cold bridge, surrounded by police, and the villagers stood and talked. The worker’s shirt was stained, and his face was pale as if he had experienced his last moments of despair.

Someone whispered behind him:
“Three days ago, he was seen wandering around here every night… as if waiting for someone.”

I cried, rushed to call my husband’s name, but it was too late. The promise to move back to my hometown to live together is now only in my memory…