My Husband Missing For Eight Years

As the door to the private room opened, the tray in my hands wobbled slightly. Bathed in warm yellow light, Tim Shawn sat at the head of the table, his arm casually draped over the shoulder of the woman beside him. That was my husband, missing for eight years. I stared at his still-familiar profile, and suddenly my throat tightened. He leaned down, listening to the woman beside him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Waiter, what are you standing there for?" Someone urged. I steadied myself and carried the tray inside, my steps so light it was as if I feared waking from a dream. Tim Shawn's gaze swept over me without the slightest flicker of emotion. It was as if he were looking at an insignificant piece of furniture. The woman beside him wore vivid makeup, her nails painted a deep wine-red; it was Mary Scott. "Place this dish over there." Mary Scott lifted her chin, her tone tinged with impatience. I set the dish down as instructed, my fingertips accidentally brushing the edge of the table. Eight years have passed, yet he remains unchanged; he still looks handsome in his white shirt. But his eyes, when they met mine, were colder than those of a stranger. The friends egged him on to drink; Tim lifted the glass and tilted his head back, swallowing as his Adam's apple moved. I turned to leave, hearing Mary Scott giggle and ask him, "Tim, have you ever been here before?" He put down his glass and said, "I don't remember." My heart felt as if stabbed by an ice pick, aching relentlessly. Stepping out of the private room, the chill in the corridor made me shiver. Leaning against the wall, I recalled scenes from childhood. Tim Shawn's house was next door to mine; we used to climb trees and raid bird nests together. He always gave me the biggest wild berry. In middle school, he stood up for me against the boys who bullied me and said, "Wendy Lincoln is mine; no one can touch her." After graduating from high school, he rode his bicycle to take me to the riverside. The sunset stretched our shadows long, and he said, "Wendy, once I save enough money, I will marry you." At twenty-four, we got married. The wedding was simple, yet filled with his thoughtful care. He personally decorated the bridal room, with walls covered in our photos. On the second day after our wedding, he put on an apron and went into the kitchen. "I know you love eating fish," he said, turning back to smile at me. "Today, I'm making Braised Carp for you." The fish was carefully selected by him this morning at the market, fresh and plump. He scraped the scales, removed the gills, and gutted the fish with practiced ease. While frying the fish, some oil splattered onto his hand; he merely frowned slightly before continuing to stir-fry. When the dish was finished, the fish was glazed with a thick, fragrant sauce that filled the air. I sat at the dining table, watching as he picked out the most tender pieces of fish meat for me. "Take it slow, don't burn yourself." His gaze was gentle, full of affection. On our first wedding anniversary, we took a Family Portrait. Grandmother held our daughter, who had just turned one, smiling broadly. Tim Shawn embraced me, his chin resting gently on my head. In the photo, our eyes gleamed with happiness. I placed that Family Portrait in a frame by the bedside. But happiness was too fleeting, like sand slipping through our fingers. When our daughter was two, Tim Shawn vanished. That morning, he kissed my forehead as he always did and said he was going on a business trip out of town. "When I return, I'll cook Braised Carp for you." He said with a smile. I never imagined that would be the last time we saw each other. After he left, he never came back. I couldn't reach him by phone, and he didn't reply my messages; it was as if he had vanished without a trace. I went to the police station to file a report. The police investigated for a long time but found no leads.