The Stolen Years
Yet there I stood at the sales assistant post in the shopping mall, suffocated by the stifling crowd and the endless repetition of explanations.
This was my third month working part-time.
To save for my university tuition, I took almost every evening shift.
At nine o'clock, as the mall's closing music played, I rubbed my aching shoulders and stepped into the quiet alley behind the back door, carrying my canvas bag.
The streetlamp, old and poorly maintained, flickered unevenly, casting my shadow long against the wall.
Suddenly, a man in a black jacket appeared from the corner of the alley, blocking my path.
He smelled strongly of alcohol, his eyes dull, and his restless hand reached toward my arm.
Terrified, I screamed and instinctively stepped back, dropping my canvas bag, and the thermos inside spilled hot water onto the floor.
"Let her go!"
A sharp voice cut through the night air.
Immediately after, a tall figure rushed over and shoved the man aside.
It was Caleb Jones; he worked security at the shopping mall, and we occasionally saw each other in the staff canteen.
Sometimes he would help me carry heavy goods to the warehouse, and when he was on duty, I would secretly bring him a cup of warm milk tea.
Caleb Jones and the man grappled fiercely, the heavy thud of fists striking flesh making me tremble all over.
Amid the chaos, I saw the fruit knife I had dropped to the ground—that same one I'd casually tucked into my bag that morning while buying fruit; at that moment, Caleb Jones picked it up.
Suddenly, the man scrambled to his feet and lunged at Caleb Jones's chest.
Before I could shout, I heard a muffled thud.
The man fell to the ground, a fruit knife buried in his chest, blood quickly soaking through his jacket.
Caleb Jones stood motionless, staring at the blood on his hands, his face turning deathly pale, like frozen snow.
The sound of sirens grew louder, red and blue lights flashing alternately, illuminating the narrow alley.
When the police got out to question, Caleb Jones suddenly stepped forward and took all the blame upon himself.
"It was I who accidentally stabbed him; she has nothing to do with it."
He turned to look at me, his eyes holding a determination I couldn't understand, as if guarding something precious.
Later, I learned that the man ultimately did not survive.
On the day of the trial, I sat in the gallery, watching Caleb Jones in his prison uniform calmly accept a five-year sentence.
When he looked at me, a faint smile lingered at the corner of his mouth, as if what awaited was not the coldness of prison, but a brief farewell.
On the visitation day before his imprisonment, I stared at him through the glass of the visiting room, noting his freshly cut hair and hollow cheeks, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face.
Caleb Jones reached out his hand, pressing it against the glass; I hurriedly did the same, as if to feel his warmth through the barrier.
"When I get out, we'll get married."
His voice came through the microphone, tinged with hoarseness, yet strikingly clear.
I nodded firmly, tears falling onto the glass, spreading into a small mist of water.
"I'll wait for you, I will definitely wait for you."
From that day forward, I began a long wait.
I quit my part-time job at the shopping mall and found a steady administrative position. Every month, I went to the prison punctually to visit Caleb Jones.
Sometimes, he spoke little, quietly listening as I shared amusing stories from work; Sometimes, he would tell me about little things in prison, about how his cellmates took good care of him, and how he had learned to knit sweaters while inside.
I kept his photo in my wallet—it was taken when he was working security, dressed in his black uniform, his smile pure and clear.
Every night before I sleep, I take it out to look at once more, then silently repeat in my heart: how many days remain until he is released.
In spring, I bring fresh cherry blossom branches to him, telling him the flowers are blooming outside; in winter, I knit thick scarves and have the prison guard deliver them to her.
I believed that as long as I waited patiently, the five years would pass quickly, and we would eventually迎来 the future we longed for.
Day by day, although the administrative work was tedious, it provided me with a steady income and a regular routine.
The day before each monthly visit, I would prepare Caleb Jones's favorite snacks in advance—sometimes cookies I baked myself, other times the egg yolk pastries he used to love.
On the day of the visit, I'd leave an hour early, afraid that traffic might delay me.
Sitting in the visitation room, watching Caleb on the other side of the glass, even when he was just quietly listening to me, I felt a deep sense of comfort.
Once, he told me he had joined a reading class in prison and borrowed many books to read, hoping to share their stories with me when he got out.
I was truly delighted to hear that and made a promise with him: when he got out, we would go to the library together and read the books he loved.
Once, I ran into trouble at work and was reprimanded by my supervisor, feeling deeply wronged.
During my visit, I couldn't help but tell Caleb Jones about it.
He didn't say much to comfort me, only looked at me earnestly and said, "It's all right. Just be more careful next time; you've already done very well. If you're tired, just tell me. I'll be here with you."
In that moment, all my grievances seemed to dissolve like smoke. I felt that as long as I had his words, I could endure even the hardest days.
I even put up a calendar on the wall of my room, marking each passing day with a red check.
Seeing the growing number of red checks on the calendar, I realized the day Caleb Jones would be released was drawing near.
I secretly began to plan our future—deciding what kind of house we would rent after getting married, imagining the places we'd visit together on weekends, and dreaming of raising an adorable little dog.
I believed these days would last until Caleb Jones was released, that we would marry as promised and live a happy life together.
But I never expected that all of this was just a carefully crafted lie.
On that day, five years later, I took special leave and got up early to go to the shopping mall.
Caleb Jones liked blue, so I bought him a light blue shirt and a pair of black leather shoes—he had said before that when he got out, he wanted to dress more formally to accompany me to the Marriage Registration Office.
I wandered around the shopping mall for a long time; besides the shirt and shoes, I also bought him a dark tie, thinking it would make the outfit look sharper.
As I paid, I looked at the items in my hands, filled with anticipation, imagining how Caleb would look wearing these clothes.
At ten in the morning, there were few people outside the prison gates.
I gripped the bag holding my clothes tightly, my heart pounding wildly.
The wind blew softly, carrying a slight chill, yet I felt a flush of heat all over.
The moment Caleb Jones's figure appeared at the gate, I recognized him almost instantly.
He was a little taller and slimmer than before, but his eyes remained the same; they lit up immediately when they saw me.
"I'm back."
He approached, reaching out to hug me, but hesitated slightly.
I stepped forward on my own and hugged him, catching the faint scent of soap on him; suddenly, my eyes brimmed with tears.
"Welcome back."
Caleb Jones's friend Alex drove to pick us up, saying he wanted to host a welcome banquet for Caleb at the usual restaurant we used to frequent.
That restaurant served authentic flavors; we would occasionally go there to improve our meals, and Caleb especially loved their boiled fish.
Wanting to surprise him, I arrived at the restaurant half an hour early, planning to decorate the private room with his favorite balloons first.
I bought a pack of blue balloons at a nearby convenience store—Caleb's favorite color—thinking to decorate the private room and create a better atmosphere for the welcome banquet.
The door to the private room wasn't fully closed, leaving a small gap.
Just as I was about to push the door open, a familiar voice came from inside—it was Caleb Jones's voice, but with a kind of casual indifference I had never heard before.
"These five years have been unbearable. If it weren't for Fiona Lopez keeping me company, I honestly don't know how I would have gotten through it."
My steps froze instantly, and my fingers stiffened on the doorknob as if frozen in place.
Fiona? I had never heard that name before. Caleb had only ever mentioned his cellmates and the prison guards to me.
My heart skipped a beat, an uneasy premonition rising within me.
"Fiona is truly thoughtful—traveling the world with you and even helping you keep it from that girl."
Another voice responded—it was Alex.
Traveling the world? My mind went blank. How could it be a world tour?
Wasn't Caleb Jones supposed to be serving time in prison? How could he be out traveling?
I thought my ears must be failing me, or perhaps I was caught in a foolish dream.
I pinched my arm sharply; the pain was clear and real. This wasn't a dream—they were telling the truth.
"Or what? You really expect me to spend five years in prison?"
Caleb Jones's voice carried a trace of sarcasm. "There was always a way out. Fiona found someone to help me get medical parole, and after that, I stayed abroad." R City in L Country, P City in F Country, and S Island in G Country—the scenery was all quite beautiful."
I stood outside the door, my body trembling uncontrollably.
It turned out that my five years of waiting were all a lie.
Every month when I visited the prison, was the person I saw really Caleb Jones?
The scarf I knitted for him, the heartfelt words I told him—did he treat them all as a joke?
"And you still expect her to wait for you for five years? Isn't that just too much..."
Before Alex could finish speaking, Caleb Jones interrupted him.
"Wait for me? She's willing to wait."
Caleb Jones chuckled lightly, a laugh sharp as a needle piercing my heart, "I married her only to give Fiona Lopez a reason; she understands her place perfectly.""A girl who's never seen much of the world can be easily placated and made to devote herself utterly."
A chill ran through me, as if someone had doused me with a bucket of ice water, freezing me from head to toe.
It turned out he hadn't suffered in prison at all, but was living comfortably abroad with another woman.
The photos I looked at every night before going to sleep, the scarf I knitted, the heartfelt words I shared—they all became the jokes he and others mocked.
The shirt pocket in my hand slipped to the floor, making a faint sound.
The noise in the private room suddenly ceased, and the air seemed to freeze.
A few seconds later, Caleb Jones pushed the door open, and when he saw me, the smile on his face instantly faded, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes.
"Why are you here? Didn't you say you'd come later?"
I looked at him, my lips trembling, unable to utter a single word.
Tears, like beads strung on a broken thread, fell without end, striking the bag on the ground.
Those clothes I had carefully chosen now looked painfully ironic.
"Did you hear everything just now?"
He probed cautiously, stepping forward.
I shook my head, then nodded again, my throat felt blocked by something, and no sound came out.
"Caleb Jones, you lied to me for five years."
At last, I forced out a sentence, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar to myself.
He tried to reach out and pull me, but I suddenly stepped back and dodged his hand.
I was afraid to touch his hand, afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself from questioning him, afraid I would break down.
"You and Fiona... traveling the world?"
Caleb Jones's eyes flickered, and he didn't answer directly. He only frowned and said, "Let me explain. Things aren't as you think."
"Then what are they?"
My voice trembled as I stared into his eyes. "Tell me, where have you been for these past five years? Your prison life, your roommates, knitting sweaters — it was all a lie, wasn't it?"
He opened his mouth but said nothing in the end. He just lowered his head, unable to meet my gaze.
I knew it—my suspicions were all true, and he had nothing left to say.
Alex tugged on his arm from behind, about to speak, but Caleb Jones stopped him with a glance.
Let's move somewhere else; too many people are here.
I looked at him, and the last flicker of hope in my heart shattered.
The memories I had carefully guarded, the beautiful future I believed in—all turned into sharp shards that wounded me deeply.
No need, Caleb Jones. I don't want to hear any more.
I bent down, picked up the shirt pocket from the ground, and turned to leave.
The sunlight was blinding, yet I felt as though darkness had fallen before my eyes; every step I took was like walking on the edge of a knife.
I don't know how I left the restaurant, only that my heart felt hollow—empty, filled solely with endless disappointment and pain.
Walking down the street, watching the crowds come and go, everyone seemed to have their own direction, while I had no idea where I was headed.
I walked slowly along the roadside, tears streaming continuously, blurring my vision.
I recalled every moment of these past five years—the anticipation during each monthly visit, the joy of marking off days on the calendar, the hopeful dreams I built for the future—all of it now felt like a cruel joke.
I walked over to a bench in the park and sat down, placing the shirt pocket beside me.
The wind blew by, carrying a hint of chill, but I couldn't feel it.
I took out the photo of Caleb Jones from my wallet and gazed at his clean smile, a sharp pain piercing my heart.
I pulled the photo out of my wallet, tore it into pieces, and scattered them on the ground.
Those memories that once made my heart flutter—from this moment on, I no longer wanted to keep them.
For the next few days, I locked myself inside, neither eating nor drinking, and didn't go to work.
My phone was filled with missed calls and messages from Caleb Jones. He said he was wrong, that he never meant to deceive me, that there was still a place for me in his heart.
Looking at those messages, all I felt was contempt.
His apology came too late, and it was far too cheap.
I set my phone to silent and put it aside, unwilling to see any more of his messages.
The room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind was filled with images of Caleb Jones and Fiona Lopez traveling the world abroad—those images like a curse, unwilling to fade away.
It wasn't until Friday morning that I finally gathered the courage to go to the company and resign.
I couldn't stay so despondent any longer; I had to start a new life.
As I reached the foot of the company building, I saw Caleb Jones standing at the entrance.
He wore the light blue shirt I'd bought for him, his hair neatly combed, looking spirited—but to me, he felt like a stranger.
"Why are you here?"
I asked coldly, not wanting to say another word to him.
The moment I saw him, the words he had said came rushing back, and the wound in my heart ached once again.
"I came to apologize."
He approached, holding a thermos. "I know you haven't been eating properly these past few days, so I made some porridge for you."
I didn't take it; I just looked at him and said, "Caleb Jones, we're over. You don't need to come looking for me anymore."
I didn't want any further involvement with him; I was afraid I'd fall once again into his web of lies.
"I know I was wrong. Could you please give me one more chance?"
His voice was pleading. "I shouldn't have lied to you, nor have gotten entangled with Fiona Lopez.""I swear I won't do it again. I'll be with you properly—we'll get married, alright?"
I originally wanted to ignore him, but he waited every day outside my company's building, rain or shine, unfailingly.
My colleagues looked at me with curiosity, and some even whispered behind my back, which made me very uncomfortable.
I really had no choice but to agree to talk with him.
"Let's go try on wedding dresses,"
He took my hand, his eyes full of pleading. "Just consider this my compensation to you. I promised you a wedding, and I will definitely give you that."
I hesitated for a long time, secretly holding on to a glimmer of hope—perhaps he truly realized his mistake, and maybe we could go back to how things were.
After all, five years of love is not something that can simply be severed overnight.
In the end, I still followed him to the bridal shop.
Download the SnackShort app, Search 【 437344 】reads the whole book.
My Fiction
SnackShort
Booklite« Previous Post
Misdirected Vengeance
Next Post »
My Stingy Husband