The Drowning Truth

Today is the third anniversary of my marriage to Gillian Fletcher. We chose a small coastal town in the south for our vacation. The sea here is a pale blue-green, like Gillian's favorite celadon bowl. Gillian loved diving; she had been enchanted by it since the second year we met. She said the underwater world was another realm—free from clamor, brimming with peace. I don't quite understand that kind of peace, yet I'm willing to follow her to every corner of the sea. The early morning sea breeze, thick with salty moisture, brushed against the wooden railings of the dock. Gillian Fletcher pulled on her wetsuit, then turned and smiled at me. Her smile flickered in the morning light, like a shell tempered with shimmering glow. "Wait for me to come back, and we'll go to that seafood stall on the dock." She stood on tiptoe and hugged me tightly. I nodded and adjusted the strap of her diving mask. "Be careful. Don't dive too deep." I kept reminding her over and over. Gillian Fletcher waved goodbye and followed the diving instructor toward the speedboat. The speedboat chugged away from the dock, gradually shrinking into a tiny black dot on the sea. I took a seat on a bench by the sea and lit a cigarette. The smoke blended with the sea breeze, carrying a bitter trace. I thought it would be just an ordinary, tender day. I thought that as the sun tilted westward, Gillian would return to me, carrying the scent of the sea. But I waited the entire afternoon, only to watch the speedboat return alone. The diving instructor's face turned pale as he ran over, speaking incoherently. My ears were ringing; I only caught the words "missing" and "ocean current". I dashed to the speedboat like a madman; Gillian was nowhere to be seen—only her diving gloves left on the seat. Those gloves were a gift I gave her last birthday—black, with tiny wave patterns embroidered on the fingertips. I immediately called the police and contacted the maritime rescue team. The searchlights from the rescue boat sliced through the night sky, casting beams of light across the sea. I stood at the bow of the boat, shouting Gillian Fletcher into the sea breeze. My voice was hoarse, as if rasped by sandpaper, answered only by the echo of the waves. On the first day, the search and rescue team found nothing. The captain patted my shoulder, urging me to brace myself. I shook my head, refusing to accept this explanation. Gillian loved the sea so much; she wouldn't just disappear like this. On the second day, I rented a small fishing boat and headed out into the sea with the diving gear alone. I had no professional diving certification; I'd only learned a bit of the basics from Gillian. The seawater was cold, wrapping around my body, an overwhelming pressure pressing in on me. I opened my eyes wide, feeling my way through the murky water. Only occasional small fish swam past—no sign of Gillian Fletcher. As I ascended, a sharp pain pierced my ears, like countless needles pricking them. I could barely notice the pain, resting briefly before diving down once more. Days like these stretched on—for three long years.