The living room curtains were drawn halfway back.
Sunlight slanted in, spilling across one corner of the window seat.

There sat a transparent crystal vase—finely contoured, its edges etched with delicate detailing, clearly chosen with care, free of any excess ornamentation.

Inside stood an arrangement of white flowers, quiet amid the crossing light and shadow.

The petals of the white balloon flowers curled slightly; the white roses, warmed by the light, took on a faint golden hue.
Their stems drooped a little, yet remained upright, held in their final posture by the water.

Flowers had already begun to wither, releasing a subtle fragrance into the air, threaded with the first signs of decay.

Beside the vase lay a letter and two silver bracelets.

The letter was neatly folded, its surface smoothed flat.

Metal bands rested against each other, reflecting a cool ring of light in the sun—like memories stripped of sound, yet still lingering where they were.

The entire corner had been kept meticulously clean.

No excessive ornamentation, no deliberate staging—yet it had become the most striking view in the room.

Each time his gaze passed that spot, it collided with a moment of silent rupture.

Like a quiet piece of testimony, left there without a word, bearing witness to what had once been.

The living room lights were off.
Where the light could not reach remained a hazy gray.

Jiang Zhilin sat on the sofa, elbows braced on his knees, head lowered.
One hand held the remote, yet he didn’t press a single button.

The television stayed dark, the screen reflecting his own blank face.

After a long while, he finally turned his head, suddenly remembering something, and fished his phone out from the gap between the cushions.

The battery was dead.

He plugged it in.
The moment the screen lit up, dozens of unread messages appeared.

His fingertips paused, then slowly opened the group chat history.

—An internal police group.

Timestamp on the latest message showed it had been three days.
The tone was brief, sent by the officer on duty:

“There’s an unidentified body that hasn’t been claimed yet. The hospital says it’s close to the deadline.
Should we notify social services?”

Below the message was a photo—
the exterior locator image of a hospital cold-storage unit, along with a temporary identification code, status still unconfirmed.

Jiang Zhilin stared at the code.

Reading it again.
And again.

As if the characters might turn into something else—
if only he looked a few more times.

They didn’t.

Nothing changed.

And in that moment, his breathing slowed to a near standstill.

Phone screen went dark, yet it remained clenched in his hand.

Only after a long while did he slowly rise, bend down, and pull open a cabinet.

From the depths of a drawer, he took out his police ID holder.

Black leather, the edges long worn, but cleaned with care.

He looked at the ID for a second—then slipped it into his coat pocket.

Back in the room, he opened the wardrobe, selected a dark shirt, fastened every button without missing one.

No hesitation.

No looking back.

As if he finally knew where he needed to go—

only he hadn’t expected that step
to come this late.

After nearly an hour’s drive, he arrived at the hospital.

He gave his identification and the code at the counter.
The clerk glanced at them, asked him to wait, and moments later an intern stepped out from the back and gave a brief nod.

“This way, please.”

He didn’t speak, only followed in silence, his footsteps so light they made no sound.

Corridor lights were excessively bright—cold white light washing over walls and floor tiles, reflecting a sterile brilliance that felt both clean and utterly unfamiliar.

The entire walk was quiet, broken only by the low hum of the central air system overhead.

They turned several corners and entered a corridor leading down to the basement.

Air began to carry an unfamiliar odor, a mixture of disinfectant, cold metal, and a faint trace of something like blood, impossible to clearly name.

He lowered his gaze to the tiles beneath his feet—dull pale gray, edges scrubbed too clean, as if every step might leave behind something that shouldn’t be there.

Before truly entering, he already felt the cold—
the kind his bones would remember.

Ahead, a registrar in a white coat stood by the doorway.
Seeing him approach, he flipped through the ledger in hand.

“Code?”

“Z-9137.”

The registrar verified the information and gave a small nod.

“Please put on gloves before going in. It’s not suitable to stay inside for long.”

Then they pressed the button on the wall.

Ka—

The door slid open along its track, releasing a dull metallic scrape, like iron dragged across ice.

He took the gloves, pulled them on, and followed the registrar inside.

Cold air wrapped around him instantly, his skin tightening as if pricked by countless fine needles.

The registrar stopped at the second compartment on the far left and pulled it open.

“Please confirm.”

What met his eyes—
was the face he had carried with him, day and night.

Ashen.
Bruised with dull purples.
Faint pressure marks still lingered near the corners of the mouth.

The jaw tilted slightly askew.
Strands of hair at the forehead lay disordered, as if there had been no time left to set them right.

Neck and everything below the chest were covered by a white sheet.
The full form was hidden, yet where the fabric lifted in shallow curves, subtle hollows could still be made out.

…It was still him.
He looked the same—
and yet everything had changed.

Jiang Zhilin stood there, motionless, for a long time, as if comparing something.

The staff did not urge him.

Only after a slight nod—his voice hoarse, nearly inaudible—

“Confirmed.”

“Then the unit will take over from here. You won’t need to be involved any further.”

He nodded again, without hesitation, and turned to leave the cold storage room.

Stretched long and thin by the white light of the corridor,
the figure looked like an outline held upright by sheer force—hollow, yet still standing.

His footsteps were as silent as when he had arrived, carrying him down the corridor, through the door, and out.

Outside, dawn had yet to break.
The pale light hung low beneath the clouds, as if still half-asleep, the air heavy with a dull mix of moisture and antiseptic.

He walked back to the parking lot, opened the car door, slid into the driver’s seat.
The sound of the door closing landed dully in the enclosed space.

He had thought he was simply tired—until the next second, when his vision suddenly blurred.

Startled, he lifted a hand to his eye.
His fingertips came away damp.

Only then did he realize the tears had already slipped down his cheeks, long before he noticed.

After a moment of stillness, his forehead lowered slowly against the steering wheel.

Someone passed by outside.
Headlights flickered, then faded.

Like something accidentally left behind, sunk deep in the quietest layers of time.

He gathered himself and drove without thinking about a destination, only with the sense that there was still one place that belonged to him.

By the time awareness returned, he was already standing at the door.

The key still turned.
Door opened quietly, as if it hadn’t been touched in a long time.

Inside, the silence was excessive—
the neatness, too complete to feel lived in.

The furniture was arranged squarely, belongings stored away with care, yet there was no trace of daily life.

A nearly invisible layer of dust lay across the tabletop, the corners of cabinets, beneath the television—
only noticeable when one drew close enough to see the fine accumulations.

As if the place had always been empty.

Or rather—
as if no one had ever expected it to be remembered.

He hadn’t planned to clean, but as he passed the coffee table, his fingertips brushed across it, and the sensation made him pause.

The dust was thin, but real.

Real enough to serve as a reminder:
this person was already gone.

He didn’t want this feeling to go on.

So he turned back to the kitchen, took a dry cloth, and wiped clean the spot he had just touched.

After the table, he swept the cloth along the TV cabinet, then bent down and brushed the dust at his feet into his palm.

At some point—he wasn’t sure when—he found himself bent over, clearing out the entire space beneath the cabinet,
afraid that somewhere there might still be traces of things that had been left behind by the world.

When he reached the corner by the wall, his fingers slipped into a gap that felt wrong.

With a small shift, he touched something.

Cold.
Hard.
Pressed tightly in place.

He pulled it out.

A phone.

An old model, edges worn down, like something kept until just before being discarded.

Without thinking much of it, he plugged it in.
The screen slowly lit up.

No passcode lock.
An empty home screen.
In one corner sat a single folder: .temp.hidden

A tap.

Inside were several image screenshots—no order, no labels.

A news headline capture.
A web form.
Two data pages.
And one missing-child notice.

The photo was washed out, the details blurred: a young boy in a dark blue top, expression stiff, eyes angled slightly downward, not quite meeting the camera.

Beneath the information were listed:

     Nancheng District, Guangyuan Alley entrance
     Male · approximately three years old
     ……

His lips pressed together.
No scrolling—at least, not right away.

He stared at the face for a long time.

Similar.

Uncomfortably so.

Not certain—but… possible.

Further down was a screenshot of a blank page, likely the interface of some database query result.

Below that, there was nothing.

No additional notes.
No further explanation.

The phone was slowly turned face down, resting in his palm.

He couldn’t make sense of why these things had been hidden in a place like this.

Nor could he understand whether it was really him.

But in that instant, a possibility flashed through his mind.

Maybe he hadn’t chosen any of it.

Not some high-ranking figure.
Not an insider, a traitor, or an undercover agent.

But someone—
a child taken away when he was very young.

Someone who tried to find his way home,
yet never once headed in the right direction.

Jiang Zhilin had never considered this.

Never imagined that if it were true—
how those years must have been lived.

His eyes closed briefly. Fingers tightened.

At last, he spoke softly:

“…I’ll help you find it.”

Just—

if there were any unfinished wishes left,
he wanted to carry them through for him.