When Oliver Smith returned to Evans Village, he was a changed man, as if completely transformed by a relentless storm.
The once upright young man, whose eyes sparkled with sunshine and hope, was now just a gaunt, weary figure. He was like a tree ravaged by autumn winds, its branches bare, leaving only a skeletal frame, every inch exuding a hollowed-out weakness. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones prominent, and his skin was sallow like old paper, as if all vitality had been drained from him. Those once bright and curious eyes were now surrounded by heavy dark circles and bloodshot, and deep within them lurked an unspeakable fear and emptiness, as if burdened by too many untold secrets and pains. He no longer possessed his former cheerfulness and vigor; instead, a heavy, suffocating gloom had taken its place, and even the air he walked through seemed to become stagnant and oppressive.
The money he brought home was not only far less than expected, but more terrifyingly, he was burdened with heavy debts. The usurious loans he had taken in Marseille were like invisible shackles, tightly binding his neck and limbs, making it impossible for him to move, and every night felt like countless venomous snakes hissing in his ears. He dared not tell his parents the truth; that astronomical debt would surely crush them. He could only fob them off with clumsy lies, saying that the construction site's profits were poor, the project had stopped, and that he was unwell, unaccustomed to the southern climate, and so had returned home early to recuperate. He tried to appear relaxed, but every time he spoke, it was like swallowing shards of bloody glass, his heart in agony.
Isabelle Lebrun's heart twisted at the sight of him, as if clutched by an invisible hand. She couldn't believe that the unrecognizable man before her was the Oliver she had once deeply loved and yearned for. He was so thin he was nothing but bones, and the light that once shone in his eyes was gone. She held him tightly, burying her face in his chest, tears streaming down uncontrollably, a mix of joy at their reunion and, more profoundly, sorrow and worry for him. She pressed him, her voice choked with sobs and urgency, asking what had happened to him in the south, why he had become this way. Oliver Smith merely stammered, his gaze darting away, unable to meet her eyes, unwilling to reveal the truth. He feared Isabelle knowing what he had done, feared the disappointment and disdain in her eyes, and even more, feared losing her, losing the last bit of warmth in his life. He just repeated over and over: "It's nothing, Isabelle, I'm just too tired, I'll be fine after some rest." His evasiveness and avoidance, like an invisible wall, rose abruptly between them, severing their former intimacy.
However, misfortune did not stop there; instead, it followed closely, like a shark sniffing blood. A new form of gambling quickly emerged in Evans Village—"underground bingo." This form of gambling was more clandestine and even more thrilling; it was like a silent shadow, quietly enveloping every corner of Evans Village, corrupting people's hearts. Those once simple and kind villagers, under the temptation of "getting rich overnight," also began to try their luck, yearning for the illusion of unearned wealth. The village's former tranquility was replaced by a surging undercurrent of restlessness, and people's conversations shifted from crop yields to who had "won" how much money.
Despite Oliver Smith being physically and mentally exhausted from gambling in the south, almost ruining himself, his inherent desire for unearned wealth reignited like dying embers, with a pathological persistence. That suppressed gambling addiction, under the temptation of "underground bingo," stirred again, like a long-dormant venomous snake, ready to bite his reason at any moment. He began to secretly inquire about so-called "winning secrets," obsessing over various rumors and "inside information," fantasizing that perhaps this time he could turn his luck around, win back everything he had lost before, and even pay off his debts and start anew. He deceived himself, believing that this time he would be careful, would never lose control as before, that he would master the "degree," only winning and never losing.
He secretly took out the last bit of money he had, without Isabelle Lebrun's knowledge, and tried to buy "bingo" tickets. At first, he just dipped his toe in, investing a few francs, hoping for a small surprise. However, gambling was like a floodgate that had opened; once it started, it was difficult to stop. It swept him into deeper quicksand with an irreversible momentum. That small victory reignited his deep-seated craving for excitement and wealth, and that false sense of control made him unable to stop. He sank deeper and deeper, his bets grew larger and larger, and his participation became more frequent, even starting to put his only meal money into it. He placed all his hopes on those cold numbers, dreaming day and night of getting rich overnight, hoping to escape his current predicament, completely ignoring the harsh reality and risks.
Isabelle Lebrun quickly noticed that something was wrong with Oliver Smith. He became more taciturn, his once clear eyes now cloudy and evasive. He often secretly slipped out late at night, not returning until very late, carrying a heavy burden of fatigue and the smell of alcohol. During the day, he was listless, his eyes hollow, like a walking corpse, indifferent to everything around him. He no longer cared for her as he used to, no longer gently stroked her hair, nor shared the little things in life with her. She repeatedly asked him what he was doing, but he always gave evasive answers, his gaze darting away, afraid to meet her eyes, as if she were a judge. The two who had once been inseparable and confided everything in each other now felt as if a thick wall of ice separated them, preventing them from getting close, even their breaths carrying a cold distance.
To pay off his debts, Oliver Smith began to secretly sell off his family's belongings. First, it was the old, worthless farm tools, which he sold cheaply to scrap collectors. Then, it was some old furniture left by his parents, wooden pieces that held family memories, which he moved out one by one. Even some small items from Isabelle's dowry, her cherished silver ornaments and embroideries, were quietly taken by him to the pawn shop. Isabelle Lebrun saw it all, and her heart ached; each time she discovered an item missing from their home, her heart hurt a little more, as if being torn apart. She knew that Oliver Smith had relapsed; he had fallen back into the quicksand of gambling, and this time, he was sinking even deeper.
She pleaded with him earnestly, her voice hoarse, filled with endless entreaty. She begged him to quit gambling for their future, for everything they once had, for the golden wheat fields and the vows made under the old oak tree. She reminded him again and again of their dreams, their shared promises, those aspirations for the city and a new life. She even knelt before him, tears streaming down her face as she implored him, her voice choked, her shoulders trembling. But at this point, Oliver Smith's mind was completely consumed by the demon of gambling; his ears were deafened by the clamor of desire, unable to hear any advice, his eyes filled only with a pathological fervor for numbers and an obsession with breaking even.