However, the river of fate always takes unexpected turns; it never flows according to human will, sometimes even testing hopeful souls in the cruelest ways.
As the university entrance examination drew nearer, the air was filled not only with the joy of harvest but also with the heavy worries in the heart of Oliver Smith's family. The exorbitant university tuition fees loomed before them like an invisible mountain. Oliver's parents were the most honest and hardworking farmers in Evans Village; they had toiled in the fields their entire lives, their hands calloused, their backs bent by time. To support Oliver through high school, they had already given everything, scrimping and saving every day, not even daring to buy new clothes. Every penny in their home was the crystallization of their sweat and tears. Faced with the astronomical tuition fees for university, they were at a loss, their faces etched with helplessness and guilt. That look in their eyes pierced Oliver's heart more than any words could.
Oliver looked at his parents' increasingly stooped backs, at the deep sense of powerlessness in their eyes, and his heart twisted. He knew he could no longer be a burden to his family. He yearned for knowledge, for a wider world, but he loved his parents more, and Isabelle, and he couldn't let their lives become even harder because of him. To lighten his family's burden, and to realize his dream sooner—the future he envisioned with Isabelle—Oliver Smith made a difficult decision: to take a year off from school. He would follow the village elders who had been working away from home for years, going to Marseille, a coastal city in the south, to work on construction sites there.
This decision, like a huge rock thrown into a calm lake, stirred up enormous waves in the hearts of Oliver and Isabelle. Isabelle's eyes welled, her cheeks flushing crimson as she tightly clasped Oliver's hand, her silent tears a hot stream against their joined fingers. She knew Oliver was doing it for their shared future, to lighten his family's burden, but a year of separation, for these young people who had just fallen in love, was undoubtedly long and agonizing. Oliver gently wiped away her tears, his eyes filled with determination: "Don't worry, Isabelle. I'll be back soon. Once I've earned enough for tuition, we can go to the city together, and start a new life together." His words carried the youthful spirit and promise, yet couldn't completely hide the unease brought by the farewell.
On the day of departure, Evans Village was shrouded in a faint melancholy. Oliver carried a simple backpack containing a few changes of clothes and the cloth shoes Isabelle had personally sewn for him. He looked back at the golden wheat fields, at the old oak tree at the village entrance, and at Isabelle, who stood at the village head, her eyes brimming with tears but bravely holding them back. He took a deep breath, suppressing all his reluctance and aspirations for the future, and resolutely embarked on his journey to Marseille.
That southern city—Marseille—was a different world for Oliver. It was like a huge, magical vortex, with its unique charm and harsh reality, drawing in countless young people like Oliver who harbored dreams. When Oliver first set foot on Marseille's soil, he was completely stunned by the sight before him. The bustling streets were teeming with traffic, towering concrete and steel buildings pierced the sky, and colorful neon lights flickered at night, a stark contrast to the quiet serenity of Evans Village. The air itself felt different, a dense concoction of the sea's salty tang, the acrid fumes of car exhaust, and the relentless, almost tangible hum of metropolitan life.
However, behind the city's prosperity lay the hardship and cruelty of the construction sites. Life on the construction site was even harder than Oliver Smith had imagined. Every day, before dawn, he had to get up and join his fellow workers in heavy and dangerous tasks. Moving rebar, mixing cement, laying bricks, plastering... every job was physically exhausting. The scorching sun baked the earth, sweat soaked his clothes, often leaving him with aching back and limbs. At night, returning to the crude barracks, his body felt like it was falling apart.
The barracks were a suffocating box where a dozen men were crammed, the air a stagnant, cloying mix of sweat, stale smoke, and the sharp tang of cheap alcohol. At night, the loneliness of being far from home surged like a tide, overwhelming Oliver's heart. He often tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He would secretly take out Isabelle's photo, and by the dim light, he would caress her face over and over again. He often gazed in the direction of his hometown, his heart filled with longing for Isabelle Lebrun, nostalgia for home, and confusion about the future. He began to wonder if his initial decision was correct, and when these days would finally end.
To pass the monotonous and long hours, and to find a little excitement in the day-to-day repetition, Oliver and his co-workers would occasionally go to a small shop near the barracks for entertainment. Besides selling daily necessities, cigarettes, and cheap snacks, the dimly lit back room of that humble shop also hid a secret "blackjack" card game. After work, the laborers would gather around a greasy wooden table, playing simple blackjack. At the card table, wins and losses were accompanied by crude curses, unwilling sighs, and occasional bursts of laughter.
Initially, Oliver Smith merely watched out of curiosity. He saw the colorful cards flying through his co-workers' hands, listened to them argue over a few francs, and felt a sense of disconnect. He was here to earn money, to change his destiny, for Isabelle, not for such meaningless diversion. He sternly reminded himself of his purpose, of Isabelle, of the future he was building. He was a man with a clear goal, and he absolutely could not allow himself to be swayed by such fleeting, dangerous distractions.
However, on one particularly exhausting evening, a remark from Old Pierre, a fellow worker, pierced Oliver's defenses like a fine needle. Old Pierre was an old bachelor from the village, having worked away from home for many years, he was quite worldly and had seen through many human affairs. He patted Oliver Smith's shoulder, handed him a cheap cigarette, its low-quality tobacco smell lingering in the air. Old Pierre wore a knowing smile on his face, and in a hoarse voice, said: "Little Oliver, don't always just bury yourself in work. Young man, you have to learn to relax. Play a few hands, if you're lucky, you might even win some money to improve your meals."
Oliver Smith declined a few times; he knew in his heart that this was not where he should be. But looking at the excited yet slightly weary expressions on Old Pierre and the other co-workers' faces, the tight string deep within him began to loosen. He thought, it's only a few francs, just for entertainment, it shouldn't be a big deal. He cautiously pulled out a few crumpled banknotes from his pocket, his hard-earned money from a day's labor, smelling of earth and sweat. He hesitated for a moment, then finally joined the game.
In the first round, he was surprisingly lucky and won five francs. Those greasy banknotes felt impossibly heavy in his palm, a tangible, exhilarating rush. Five francs – almost half a day's wages, earned in mere moments! A dangerous thought, slick as the cards themselves, whispered through his mind: perhaps gambling wasn't a trap after all, but an effortless path to the money he so desperately needed.