Chapter 159 Let the Wedding Be Set by the Seaside

Chapter 159 Let the Wedding Be Set by the Seaside

Stephanie's POV

Christopher suddenly flashed a mysterious smile. "I think you should go see this for yourself. The Recorder's Office is downtown—about twenty minutes by car. Want to check it out?"

I lowered my gaze to the torn edge in my journal, an odd itch stirring inside me. It didn't hurt, but I couldn't ignore it.

I had a feeling whatever Christopher was hinting at had something to do with this missing page, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't recall any details.

Had I torn out this page myself, or had someone else? Why had I completely forgotten what was written there?

I met his eyes and nodded firmly. "Let's go."

The car rolled through the familiar streets of town. I leaned against the window, watching the scenery slide past, a strange feeling settling over me.

It was like retracing the paths of my youth—the outlines were clear, but everything felt shrouded in a thin mist. I could see the shapes, but I couldn't grasp any of the details.

We arrived at the Recorder's Office quickly. The clerk entered the address of the old house into her system.

She tapped away at her keyboard, and property records popped up on the screen.

She stared at it for a few seconds, her brow furrowing slightly.

"The registration record for this property does exist. The title isn't under your family's name. The registered owner is… Yasmin."

I froze on the spot.

Yasmin…

In an instant, fragmented images flooded my mind: her holding a tray in the orphanage cafeteria, waving to me at the beach, crouching on the dirt slope of the playground and turning back to smile at me.

Across nearly twenty years, across the distance between life and death, I'd never imagined I'd see her name again—like this.

"That's impossible… She was only seven back then. She couldn't have registered property on her own."

The clerk nodded in agreement and tapped at her keyboard again, pulling up the records. "You're right. She didn't handle it herself. The paperwork was filed by a couple named Johnson."

She looked up at me, her tone calm. "Your parents."

My brain went blank.

My parents. But they'd never mentioned this to me.

Why would they register the house under Yasmin's name?

Christopher reached over and gently took my hand, then turned to the clerk.

"Are the original documents from back then still on file?"

"The early records are all paper-based. I'll need to pull them from storage. Give me a moment."

The clerk disappeared into the back room.

I stood at the counter, my palms damp with sweat, my heartbeat erratic. It felt like something buried for years was about to be unearthed.

About ten minutes later, she returned, holding a file box labeled with the old house's address.

She pulled out a thick stack of documents.

The pages were yellowed, the corners curled, and some of the ink had faded, but most of it was still legible.

"These are the complete archived records from that time." She handed the documents to me. "Includes the property transfer agreement, registration forms, and some supplementary notes."

I slowly opened the first page. The first thing I saw was my parents' signatures.

I'd know that handwriting anywhere—my father's bold and sharp, my mother's neat and rounded.

Decades ago, without my knowledge, they'd sat in this very office and signed their names, transferring ownership of a house to a seven-year-old girl.

My eyes burned. I kept flipping through the pages.

When I reached the last one, I stopped cold.

The torn edge of this yellowed page matched the damaged section in my old journal perfectly.

My fingers trembled as I carefully unfolded it. Scrawled across it in my childish, uneven pencil handwriting:

[Today Mom asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said I wanted to be a painter. Mom smiled and asked if I had any other wishes. I thought about it and said I also wanted a really big house that could fit a lot of people. Mom asked who I wanted to live in it, and I said I wanted Yasmin to live there. If she ever felt scared, or had nowhere to go, she could always come stay in my house.]

[Mom didn't say yes or no. She just patted my head and told me I should build the house by the ocean, because Yasmin loves the sea. I said yes right away—I'd build a house by the ocean so Yasmin could see the sea every day.]

Hot tears finally slipped free, falling one by one onto the page.

Buried memories surged to the surface. I even remembered clearly—after saying all that, I'd drawn a clumsy picture.

In it were a lopsided sun, a jagged coastline, two little houses side by side, and in the corner, a tiny line of text: [Yasmin and Stephanie's home.]

Back then, I didn't understand what property titles meant. I only knew I wanted to share what I had with my best friend.

And my parents had held onto that wish. When they left this town, they didn't sell the old house. Instead, they registered it under the name of Yasmin—who had already passed away—to give her restless spirit a place to call home forever.

A breeze drifted in through the half-open window, gently stirring the paper in my hands.

Behind me, Emily sniffled softly. Rufus turned toward the bulletin board on the wall, clearly trying to hide his emotions.

Only Christopher remained steady, holding my hand tightly, never letting go.

I finished reading every word on the page, carefully folded it, and placed it back in the file box.

"Can I get a copy of this to take with me?"

"Of course."

The clerk took the document and walked over to the copy machine. A moment later, she handed me a fresh printout.

The paper was still warm from the machine. I took it carefully and pressed it against my chest.

Outside the office, midday sunlight bathed the entire street, turning rooftops and pavement into brilliant gold.

I stood under the awning, gazing at the sunlit houses across the street. My understanding of that old house had completely changed.

It was no longer just an old, abandoned building.

It was the promise I'd made at seven years old, written in shaky pencil.

And it was the tender vow someone had kept for me, across the years.

For a moment, I felt like I was back at the beach from my childhood. This time, I'd held onto Yasmin's hand—and never let go.

I turned to Christopher beside me and said softly, "Let's have the wedding on the beach across from the old house."

He smiled gently and nodded. "Okay."

He took my hand and started walking toward the car. Just as he was about to open the door, Emily let out a startled gasp behind us.