Time, the greatest healer and the most impartial record-keeper, flows silently, washing away past hurts and carving the marks of the years.
Outside Evans Village, Isabelle LeBlanc's life gradually found peace. She poured her heart and soul into education, becoming a beloved village teacher. In the clear eyes of her students and the sound of their eager voices, she found life's purity and beauty. She was no longer the girl heartbroken by love and betrayal, but a woman full of wisdom and strength. She married a man who was equally kind and upright. He understood her past, respected her choices, and gave her endless warmth and support. They built a warm home; their children grew up healthy and happy, their laughter the greatest comfort in Isabelle's life and the softest light deep within her. She learned how to love, how to be loved, and how to cherish everything she had.
Meanwhile, Oliver Smith spent long, dark years within the prison walls. Life behind bars stripped him of all freedom and forced him to confront the crimes he had committed. Each day in prison was like a silent trial, making him deeply reflect on the destruction gambling brought him, and the irreparable harm he caused Isabelle LeBlanc, his family, and even the innocent co-worker who had passed away.
Initially, he was filled with anger and resentment. He resented the unfairness of fate, those who tempted him to gamble, and even Isabelle for not forgiving him. He shut himself off, refusing to communicate with anyone. However, the lengthy sentence, the monotonous daily routine, and the inescapable guilt deep within him eventually acted like a dull knife, slowly grinding away his aggression and stubbornness.
He began to repent alone in the dead of night. When the work shed was filled with snoring and the moonlight streamed through the iron bars onto the cold concrete floor, he would curl up in a corner, tears streaming down his face as he recalled everything from the past. He remembered Isabelle's crescent-shaped eyes, her vows to him under the old oak tree, the cloth shoes she sewed for him, and the well water she brought him. The beautiful things he had personally destroyed now felt like sharp shards, piercing his heart again and again. He was heartbroken by the foolish things he had done and the wrong paths he had taken, regretting that he had personally ruined everyone who loved him and the love they had given him.
In prison, he began to read. He read books he had once disdained—stories about life, morality, and redemption. The nourishment of knowledge gradually cleared his mind. He began to realize that his downfall was not accidental but the result of a combination of desire, escapism, and mistaken values. He started to keep a diary, recording his reflections and pain; each stroke of the pen was an interrogation of his soul.
When he finally walked out of the prison gates, Oliver Smith was a middle-aged man. He was gaunt, his hair graying, and his face was etched with the marks of time and the vicissitudes of prison life. He was like someone forgotten by the world, with no family to meet him, no friends to greet him. He had lost everything: his former dreams, his past love, his former dignity. He was a social outcast, alone, barely surviving on odd jobs in the dark corners of the city. He dared not return to Evans Village, knowing he could not face those who once cared for and trusted him, much less the golden wheat fields that once held his pure love.
He drifted from city to city, doing the lowest-paying jobs and staying in the cheapest hotels. He was like a wandering soul, without direction or purpose. He feared crowds, feared other people's gazes, and feared being recognized. Deep down, he was still shrouded by the shadow of gambling addiction; the craving for excitement and wealth lay like a dormant demon, ready to awaken at any moment. He knew that if he could not completely shake off his gambling addiction, he would never attain true freedom and redemption.
However, a turn of fate sometimes arrives when least expected. By chance, Oliver Smith saw a flyer for a gambling addiction support group on the street. The flyer read: "You are not fighting alone." This sentence was like a faint light, piercing the darkness deep within him. He hesitated for a long time, lingering in front of the flyer, but finally, he mustered the courage and pushed open the door to the addiction recovery center.
There, he met many people with similar experiences: former wealthy businessmen, former laborers, former housewives... All had been tormented by gambling addiction, all had lost everything. They confided in and encouraged each other, fighting the addiction together. Oliver Smith gradually opened his heart, telling his story, including his experiences in Marseille, his repentance in prison, and his guilt towards Isabelle. Each telling was a cleansing of the soul, and each listening made him feel the warmth of being understood and accepted. He actively participated in the recovery center's various rehabilitation activities, learning how to control his desires, rebuild his life, and face his past. He began to volunteer, using his personal experience to help others trapped in the quicksand of gambling addiction. He knew this was not just helping others, but also saving himself.
Years later, at a charity event, the threads of fate drew them together again. Isabelle LeBlanc heard about a gambling addiction counselor named Oliver Smith, whose story bore a striking resemblance to the man she once knew. A complex mix of emotions surged within her: curiosity, a long-forgotten pain, and a hint of indescribable anticipation. With these complicated feelings, she decided to attend the charity event.
When they met again, both were in middle age. The marks of time had etched around their eyes, and fine wrinkles spoke of past hardships. Life's trials had made them more introspective and calm; former sharp edges were smoothed, past passions deeply buried. They looked at each other silently, time seemingly frozen in that moment. A silent tension filled the air, as if a thousand words were caught in their throats, yet neither knew where to begin.
Finally, Isabelle broke the silence. She smiled gently, her voice mellowed by the years, soft and calm: "Oliver?"
Oliver's body trembled violently; that single "Oliver" carried a familiar tenderness, yet felt so distant. He nodded with difficulty, his voice hoarse: "Isabelle."
They eventually sat down and spoke calmly, like two old friends reunited after a long separation. There were no hysterical accusations, no desperate justifications. Oliver Smith honestly confessed his past to Isabelle LeBlanc, including his descent in Marseille, his deep reflections in prison, and how he gradually embarked on the path of recovery and self-redemption. He made no excuses for himself, simply stating the facts calmly, his voice filled with remorse and sincerity.
Isabelle listened quietly, her gaze fixed on Oliver's face. She saw the guilt in his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead, his no-longer-young appearance. Her heart was a swirl of emotions; the hatred she once held, in the face of time's cleansing and Oliver's sincerity, gradually faded.