The White Sheets at the Crossroads

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The red invitation card was still spread out on the living room coffee table, the gold-embossed words Happy Wedding flashing painfully in my eyes.

When the sharp ringtone pierced the quiet night, I was with Mark Shane, packing red envelopes for the best man and bridesmaids for tomorrow.

The words Traffic Police flashed on the screen, and my fingers suddenly stiffened like stone.

Mark Shane noticed my strange reaction, reached out to take the phone, pressed the answer button, and the smile on his face froze instantly after hearing the first words.

"Send me the address. I'm on my way." His voice was taut like a drawn bowstring. After hanging up, he grabbed me and rushed out the door.

The night scene outside the car window rushed by, neon lights casting mottled shadows across my face, but I couldn't see anything clearly. I only felt my heart being gripped tightly by an invisible hand.

Mark Shane was driving recklessly, running two red lights. I mechanically said, "Be careful," but my voice was barely more than a whisper.

The intersection where the accident happened was already sealed off with a police line; the flashing red and blue lights cut sharply through the night.

I had just opened the car door and rushed toward the police line but was stopped by the traffic officers. My gaze passed over the crowd and settled on the road.

That familiar white car sat crookedly by the roadside, its front end completely wrecked, with the airbags fully deployed.

On the ground beside the car lay two white sheets, their outlines sharp and clear like knives frozen in ice, stabbing straight into my heart.

"No" I screamed as I lunged forward, my knees hitting the asphalt hard, the pain numbing me, yet I desperately crawled ahead.

Mark Shane caught up with me and held me tightly; his chest was warm, but I felt icy all over.

"Nona, don't do this, the doctors are still working on it." His voice trembled, but I couldn't catch a word he said.

I struggled to lift the white cloth, wanting to see clearly if the people beneath were really my parents.

At that moment, a sudden commotion broke out in the crowd, and a slender figure stumbled as she ran over.

It was Yvonne Quentin.

She had known Mark Shane since they were kids and had always stuck close to him, living with us all these years as the "little sister."

Yvonne rushed up to the cloth, but after just one glance, her legs buckled and she collapsed to the ground.

Mark instinctively released me, stepped forward quickly, and lifted Yvonne up, calling her name anxiously.

I lay on the ground, watching him carefully cradle Yvonne's head, his touch so gentle it felt unfamiliar to me.

"Nona, I'll take Yvonne to the hospital first. She has a heart condition and can't handle any shock. I'll leave this place in your hands for now." He hurriedly gave a brief explanation, and before I could respond, he lifted Yvonne, put her in the car, and sped away.

The night wind whipped up dust from the ground, stinging my eyes so I couldn't open them.

I knelt there all alone beyond the police line, watching the police officers and medical staff coming and going, suddenly feeling like I'd been abandoned by the whole world.

When my parents' bodies were being loaded into the ambulance, I finally lost my strength, everything went dark, and I fainted.

I woke up again on a hospital bench, with a cup of cold water beside me.

The police came over to take my statement, saying the accident was entirely caused by the other party's drunk driving, but as I watched his lips move, I couldn't remember a single word.

The days spent handling the aftermath were always gloomy and overcast.

I contacted the funeral home, ordered wreaths, wrote condolence couplets, and received friends and family who came to pay their respects. I was busy every day like a spinning top, only able to silently cry leaning against my parents' portrait late at night when everything was quiet.

Mark Shane had only come twice, each time in a rush, saying that Yvonne Quentin was frightened and had a persistent high fever, needing someone to look after her.

I looked at the red veins in his eyes, wanting to say something, but in the end, I simply nodded.

I told myself that Yvonne was innocent; she had been in poor health since childhood, and it was only right that Mark took care of her.

But every time I saw the lonely portrait in the mourning hall and thought about the fear my parents might have felt in their final moments, my heart felt as if it were pierced by countless needles.

Seven days later, the funeral was over.

After seeing off the last of our relatives and friends, I dragged my exhausted body back to the bridal room Mark Shane and I had shared.

The moment I turned the key in the lock, I hesitated; this place, once full of laughter and joy, was now shrouded in cold silence.

As I pushed the door open, a strong aroma of seafood porridge greeted me.

The kitchen light was on, and Mark Shane stood at the stove wearing an apron, carefully ladling porridge into a bowl.

Yvonne was sitting on the living room sofa, wearing Mark Shane's gray sweatshirt, with my pink slippers on her feet, holding the remote as she watched TV.

The scene looked as harmonious as a real married couple, while I felt like an intruding outsider.

"Nona, you're back." Mark Shane saw me, put down the bowl he was holding, came over, and tried to take my bag.

I stepped aside to avoid his hand and fixed my gaze on Yvonne.

She saw me, her face briefly showing unease, but she still forced a calm smile and said, "Nona, you must be tired. Mark specially made some seafood porridge for me. Would you like to try some too?"

Her words were like a fuse, instantly igniting the emotions I had been holding back for seven days.

My parents had just left; their bodies were still cold in the grave.

Yet she sat on my sofa wearing my slippers, drinking the porridge my fianc made, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Mark seemed to notice something was wrong with me and quickly tried to smooth things over: "Nona, Yvonne's feeling a bit better, so I thought seafood porridge might be gentle on her stomach. I made some for her and also served you a bowl. Come on over and eat."

He turned around to get the porridge, but I quickened my steps and snatched the bowl right out of his hands.

The scalding porridge splashed onto my hand, making me wince in pain, but I gripped the bowl tightly and hurled it fiercely toward Yvonne on the couch.

"Ah!" Yvonne screamed, jumping up as her hoodie got soaked with the sticky porridge, and a few shrimp pieces clung to her hair.

Mark Shane shouted in shock and rushed over to shield Yvonne, glaring at me angrily, "Nona! Are you crazy?"

Yvonne Quentin hid in Mark Shane's arms, crying with tears streaming down her face: "Mark, I didn't mean to. I was only worried about Nona's health. I never imagined she would treat me this way..."

She lifted her head, her eyes filled with resentment, but her voice was still soft: "Because of the wedding preparations for you, your parents got into trouble? You're nothing but a disaster!"

The word "disaster" struck my heart like a heavy hammer.

I shook with anger, pointing at Yvonne Quentin's nose: "Say that again!"

"I'm telling you, you're a disaster!" Yvonne raised her voice.

"If it weren't for you, your parents wouldn't have gone out so late to buy your wedding accessories. They wouldn't have had the accident! It's all your fault!"

Mark furrowed his brows, grabbed the agitated Yvonne, and then looked at me. "Nona, even though what Yvonne said was harsh, you really were too impulsive."

"She's not well; you shouldn't treat her that way."

I looked at Mark in disbeliefthis was the man I'd loved for five years and was about to marry. Yet, when my parents had just died and his so-called "sister" publicly called me a jinx, he actually turned around and accused me of being impulsive.

"Mark," I said, my voice severely hoarse, "My parents are dead, did you know?"

His eyes flickered briefly, and his tone softened slightly: "I know you're upset, but it's already happened. We have to move forward."

"Calm down first. Once you've come to terms with it, apologize properly to Yvonne. Then I'll go with you to visit your parents' grave."

After saying that, he picked up the coat from the sofa and carefully wrapped it around Yvonne, then helped her walk toward the door.

At the door, Yvonne looked back at me, a faint, barely noticeable smug smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

The door slammed shut, cutting off the outside world.

I was the only one left in the living room; the air still held the scent of seafood porridge, mixed with Yvonne Quentin's perfume, churning my stomach.

I slowly crouched down, staring at the scattered porridge grains and shrimp on the floor. Then I covered my face, and the suppressed sobs finally broke free from my throat.

Five years of love, those mountain-high, sea-deep vows, those hopes for the futureall shattered to dust in this moment.

I know, Mark Shane and I are finished.

In the days that followed, I locked myself in my room, neither eating nor drinking, and refusing to answer anyone's calls.

The curtains were drawn tight, the room pitch dark, with only my phone screen occasionally lighting up, casting my pale, haggard face in its glow.

Mark didn't contact me, but Yvonne Quentin was unusually "active."

On the first night, I received a multimedia message on my phone.

In the photo, Yvonne was leaning on the sofa, while Mark knelt on one knee, his head bowed as he rubbed her leg, his expression so tender it seemed to drip with warmth.

The caption reads: "Nona, Mark told me I've been scared these past few days, and my leg has been hurting; he's so worried about me."

I stared at that photo for a long time, my fingers cold, nearly crushing the phone screen.

The next day, Yvonne Quentin sent another audio message.

I hesitated for a moment but finally opened it.

A familiar voice came from the phone; it was Mark Shane's, carrying a tone of solemnity and sincerity.

"I, Mark Shane, swear here and now that for the rest of my life, I will take good care of Nona, love her, cherish her, and never let her suffer even the slightest injustice."

"If I can't do it, may I be struck by lightning and die a terrible death."

This vow was made by him last year on my family's balcony, in front of my parents.

At that time, he had just succeeded in his startup, holding a ring as he proposed to me. My parents were beaming, urging us to marry quickly.

But now, this vow, sent from Yvonne Quentin's phone, has become the most venomous mockery.

My hand holding the phone trembled uncontrollably, tears silently streaming down, blurring the screen with a spreading wet patch.

Right after that, another message from Yvonne Quentin came through: "Nona, listen, Mark used to love you so much, but unfortunately, he loves me now."

"By the way, did you know? That day, your parents originally didn't want to go out. It was me who called and told them that the wedding dress shop you liked had just received new accessories, so they rushed over there specially."

With a loud bang, my mind went completely blank.

It was her! Yvonne Quentin deliberately lured my parents out!

I suddenly jumped out of bed, rushed to the computer, and frantically searched through the call logs from that day.

Sure enough, half an hour before my parents left, an unknown number called them, and the call lasted one minute and twenty-three seconds.

I trembled as I wrote down the number, then called Mark Shane.

The phone rang for a long time before being answered, and Yvonne Quentin's sweet voice came through: "Nona, is that you? Mark is blowing my hair right now. What's going on?"

"Let Mark answer the phone!" I gritted my teeth, my voice twisted with anger.

After a few seconds, Mark's voice finally came through: "Nona, what's going on?"

"Mark, is what Yvonne said true? Did my parents go out because of her phone call?" I nearly shouted it.

There was a pause on the other end, then Mark's voice came through, tinged with impatience: "Nona, don't listen to Yvonne's nonsense. She only mentioned it in passing. Your parents decided to go out on their own; it has nothing to do with her."

"Nothing to do with her?" I laughed, tears running down my face. "Mark, are you blind?"

"She put the evidence right in front of me, and you're still defending her!"

"Nona!" Mark Shane's voice turned cold. "Can you behave a little more maturely?"

"Yvonne meant well. Now that things have come to this, what good does blaming anyone do? It only makes everyone feel worse."