The Time We Were Given

The sun was already low over the estate when Shu-fen knelt on the loose soil.

Yi-yun stood slightly bent beside her, her hands braced on her knees, watching every movement with grave concentration.

Shu-fen reached for one of the broad, heart-shaped leaves which rustled dryly beneath her fingers.

“Do you see the leaves?” she said. “When they turn like this, you know the tuber had enough time to grow.“

She took the old digging fork and loosened the earth with care, circling the plant rather than forcing it.

Then she set the tool aside and reached into the soil with both hands.

Slowly, the brown tuber emerged.

Shu-fen brushed the dirt from it and placed it into Yi-yun’s waiting hands.

“Whoa,” Yi-yun said, staggering slightly. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

Shu-fen smiled. “Mm-hm. That’s what time does.”

As she straightened up again, she held her lower back for a moment and briefly winced.

“Grandma! Are you hurt?” Yi-Yun asked worriedly as she tossed the tuber into the bucket with the others.

“No, no,” Shu-fen said with a soft smile. “It’s nothing, dear. Just a reminder that I shouldn’t rush things anymore.”

She stretched slowly, breathing in and out deeply.

“You know, being old isn’t always pleasant. But being old together with someone who matters to you… that makes it easier.”

Yi-Yun thought for a moment.

“But you and Grandpa...”

“I told you,” Shu-Fen interrupted gently, gesturing toward the house, “he’s just running late. Come on, let’s get these inside.”

Later, Yi-yun stood on a stool at the sink, washing a taro root before handing it to Shu-Fen, who slipped it into the boiling water with the others.

“There,” she said. “They need to simmer for a while now.”

Yi-Yun dried her hands and bounced impatiently from one foot to the other.

“Will you finally tell me what happened next?” she asked. “With you and Grandpa? You promised!”

Shu-fen chuckled softly and brushed a hand through Yi-yun’s hair, drawing a small pout from her.

“You’re right,” she said. “I did promise.”

They sat down at the kitchen table.

Shu-fen folded her hands for a moment, as though arranging her thoughts.

“When it became clear that we wanted to stay together,” she began slowly, “your grandfather and I had to ask ourselves how that could even be done.”

Yi-yun’s eyes lit up. “You ran away.”

Shu-fen laughed softly. “You would have, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Yi-yun said without hesitation.

“No,” Shu-fen replied gently. “We were both too visible. Too well known. There was nowhere we could have gone without being followed.”

She paused, her gaze drifting briefly toward the window.

“So for a while,” she said, “we did the only thing we could.”

“What’s that?”

“We waited,” Shu-fen said. “And we made use of every moment we were given.”

᯽᯽᯽

We had one week.

Seven days before a naval transport ship would take Shuichi back to China, to the place where he was needed again as a symbol.

I never counted them aloud, but I felt them with every breath.

So we decided not to waste what little we had.

The night we met on the mountain road, we planned carefully how we might see one another without being noticed.

Never twice in the same place.

Never at the same hour.

The first evening, we met shortly before midnight.

There was an old Guanyin shrine, slightly off the path in the mountains, not far from here, whete it still stands today.

Only the faint light of my lantern illuminated the narrow trail.

“Shu-fen…”

His voice came from the shadows, and for a moment I stood frozen before relief finally reached me.

“Shuichi-san…”

I stepped closer and fell into his arms without hesitation.

He held me close, then pulled back just enough to study my face.

“Did you get away safely?” he asked softly. “Did anyone see you?”

I shook my head. “No. I was careful. And you?”

He wanted to say something reassuring, but the words caught in his throat.

“It isn’t easy,” he said at last, “to leave the barracks unnoticed. But I’ve prepared excuses, just in case they ask questions.”

For a moment, we simply looked at each other.

Then I remembered the bag slung over my shoulder.

“I brought something,” I said.

Later, we sat on the stone ledge of the shrine.

The tea in my small bottle had already cooled, and only a faint wisp of steam rose into the night air.

Shuichi held a rice ball in his hand, chewing thoughtfully.

“Well?” I asked.

He considered for a moment.

“It reminds me of my mother’s onigiri,” he said finally. “But these… they’re milder. Not as sour.”

He looked at me. “They’re delicious.”

I smiled. “I pickled the plums myself.”

But eventually, the lines of worry returned to his brow.

“Don’t think about it,” I said quietly, moving closer until our hips touched.

He sighed. “How could I not? We only have six days left.”

I knew.

But I didn’t want these hours to be overshadowed by what had not yet happened.

I lifted my hand to his chin and gently turned his face toward mine.

“Listen to me,” I said. “Tomorrow is tomorrow. And now is now.”

His gaze softened.

“And now,” I continued, “I want to learn as much about you as I can.”

He lowered his eyes.

“There isn’t much to tell,” he said at last. “After school, I joined the army. As it was expected of all the men in my family. Shortly after officer training, the war began.”

He fell silent for a moment.

“Shanghai. Suiyuan. Xinkou…”

I held my breath.

“...Xiaofeng?” I asked quietly.

His face darkened, and for a moment I had the impression that he wasn’t seeing me at all, that he was far away, in a place I didn’t know and that he couldn’t show me.

“Shuichi-san?” I said carefully.

He exhaled slowly.

“You have to believe me one thing,” he said at last, without looking up. “I despise war.”

His voice was calm, but beneath it was something fragile.

Then he looked at me, as though weighing how much he could ask of me to bear.

“I am not what some people say I am,” he continued. “But I am not what others want me to be either.”

He lowered his gaze again.

“That’s all I can tell you about it.”

Eventually, he looked up again, watching me as if to see whether that would be enough.

Whether I was prepared to live with not knowing more.

I placed my hand over his.

“I understand,” I said gently.

And by that, I accepted what he was able to give me and trusted in what I felt about him.

We remained silent for a while.

The tea had long since gone cold, and the wind stirred the trees around the shrine.

I leaned my shoulder lightly against his.

And for that moment, it was enough.