In 1985, I signed a marriage contract with Lu Zhanye, the cold-faced regiment commander.
He needed a wife who wouldn’t cause trouble to satisfy the organization. I needed a military identity to help me search for my missing father. We agreed: separate rooms, no interference in each other’s affairs, play along when necessary, and part on good terms when the time was right.
Everyone thought this was just another typical military marriage that sacrificed personal happiness: a gentle, obedient wife and a stern, rigid husband, treating each other with polite respect.
Then, on a rainy night, he climbed through my window, covered in blood, with a classified document from my father’s laboratory in his hand. As he wiped down his gun, he showed his true expression for the first time. “Dr. Lin, it seems we need to add a few clauses to our agreement.”
He didn’t know that my mild eyes concealed scattered memories from the future. Those medical suggestions that were “conveniently” ahead of their time were the bargaining chips I used to pave the way in my search for my father.
I didn’t know that he always carried another report in his pocket: the marriage application submitted to the organization, with the words “I have no regrets in this life” added in his own hand.
When enemy agents trained their guns on me, and the organization’s investigation turned toward him, we laid everything bare in the study late one night:
“I’m the covert operative of the Great Wall Project. Your father is a key figure.”
“I have memories of the future. The ‘Morning Star’ you’re investigating will spark a technological revolution three years from now.”
Two people harboring secrets, from contract spouses to revolutionary comrades, enact an unconventional romance between equals in an eighties military camp. It isn’t about one saving the other, but about standing side by side and looking in the same direction.
This military marriage, which began with lies, ultimately became our most sincere revolutionary vow.
