The twinkle in Aaron’s eyes had disappeared, replaced by an indescribable dullness. In the
distance a lone wolf’s howl pierced the blowing winds.
“It was after a space of a few years that I heard of her whereabouts, when I found a letter
addressed to me in my mailbox. It was in her handwriting.” Aaron fished out a letter from his
rucksack. The photographer took the letter, opening it with his near-frozen fingers.
My Dearest Aaron,
If you are reading this, I am already in my eternal sleep. I entrusted this letter with my
family, to be sent out a few years after I die. I imagine that you would have recovered from the
pain of the rejection by then.
You may still hate me now for refusing your marriage proposal. It still pains me as I think of
it now; there could’ve been other ways, but none as effective as this one.
I left you because I was diagnosed with cancer: I was in the final, incurable stage. When I
learnt I was dying, the only person I could think of immediately was you, how you would react to
this news, or how you feel.
I decided not to let you know – I didn’t want you to see my health deteriorating by the day, bit
by bit, until I died. That would be torture to you, which I didn’t want to see, as I loved you so much.
So I tried to exit your life, bit by bit, so you wouldn’t miss me when I left. How badly I wanted
to say yes when you proposed to me in the Gobi! However, given my condition, refusing your
proposal was better than you watching me on my deathbed.
I hope you can do one thing for me, Aaron: please, continue travelling to the Gobi for me. It was
your dream to unearth fossils in the Gobi, I remember. Don’t cast away your dreams because of me.
I’m sorry that I can’t be the one sitting next to you, watching the sun go down. Maybe
someday, when we meet again…
I end the letter here. I love you, Aaron.
The photographer looked up at Aaron. Two lines of tears filled with reminiscence and regret
were visible on his cheeks.
“You’re the first person I ever talked to about my past. I never thought it would be this hard,”
said Aaron, wiping the tears dry. “But at least I had the guts to fulfil her dying wish. Now I visit
the Gobi once every two years.
The photographer spoke. “Isn’t that hard to do? Don’t you think of her every time you come here?”
Aaron gave a thin smile. “Oh, yes I do. That is difficult to overcome. But what matters is how
you view that memory: do you dwell on it, or do you control the feelings and move on? These
memories are painful, true, but how is one complete without memories?
“I can face my past with courage. What about you?”
The photographer conjured memories of his own past: his photo of the hunter. The depression
set in like a punch – no, the memory is too powerful, thought the photographer. I cannot override
the emotions.
He snapped out of his trance to find himself breathing heavily and sweating. “I cannot do
this,” the photographer glared at Aaron. “I cannot even bring myself to use my camera again! I
saw a man being killed in front of me – a killing that could have been prevented!”
The photographer was on a roll now. “The only thought in my mind was the fame that would
follow when I took that photo – the fact that there was someone’s life at stake didn’t occur to me
at all! It was after taking the photo that the guilt started to set in, the realization of the monster
inside me! I’m now suffering from depression so great that no anti-depressant,” he took out a bag
