With the grave-sweeping concluded, Ji Xun and Huo Ranyin didn’t part ways with Yu Cisheng. The two men were heading back to Huo Ranyin’s old home, and since Yu Cisheng was going in the same direction, they traveled together.
Upon reaching the apartment complex and the familiar floor, Yu Cisheng knocked on the neighboring door. It opened to reveal a kind-faced old man twisting a string of prayer beads. His eyebrows were the most striking feature—long, thick, and lush, much like those of the longevity deities seen in paintings.
This was Yu Cisheng’s father, Yu Fanhai.
At sixty-seven, he was originally from Hong Kong before immigrating to Singapore. Perhaps out of a long-standing streak of superstition, or perhaps because he had been close friends with Huo Ranyin’s parents and feared reopening old wounds, his family had moved away shortly after that fateful night. However, they hadn’t been able to sell this apartment, so they kept it furnished for their occasional returns. Huo Ranyin had learned all this through his sporadic contact with Yu Cisheng over the years; he hadn’t seen this elder in a very long time.
“Hello, Uncle Yu,” Huo Ranyin greeted.
Yu Fanhai’s eyes lit up with a flash of surprise upon seeing Huo Ranyin. His gaze lingered on Huo Ranyin’s brow, much like the prayer beads in his hand, which he slowly clicked forward by one, letting his focus drift back into an unfathomable void. “You look so much like your mother. When did you get back? Come in and sit for a while?”
Even after years apart, the elder couldn’t avoid the perfunctory, ritualistic pleasantries of greeting a junior. But Yu Fanhai’s appearance offered Huo Ranyin the chance to directly ask about the nameless grave he had been ruminating over.
After listening to Huo Ranyin’s query, Yu Fanhai pondered for a long time.
“Her name was Huo Qiying—the ying of firefly (yinghuochong),” he smiled faintly. “A unique character, don’t you think? Most people would use the ying with the jade radical, or perhaps the ying from the poem ‘Overflowing in the midst of the water, silent and unable to speak.’ But using the firefly ying—like a flickering, humble light resting in the dark—it was vivid and beautiful. I remember her only because of that name. It’s a pity the cenotaph your grandfather erected for her is nameless.”
Huo Qiying, Huo Qiyu. Huo Ranyin repeated the names in his mind. Taking their names from that same poem, Huo Qiying was a bit older than Huo Qiyu. Perhaps the ying wasn’t just a firefly, but the ying of haoying—sea fireflies, the source of “blue tears” (bioluminescence).
“Do you know how old she was, or why she died?”
Yu Fanhai shook his head apologetically. “I only heard that your grandfather had removed her name from the family register; it seemed there was some unspoken conflict. Perhaps… perhaps she never really died at all.”
With that, the pleasantries ended. Yu Fanhai retreated into his apartment, and the door clicked shut, severing the conversation before it could deepen.
“Does he have the key to your place?” Ji Xun asked abruptly.
Huo Ranyin was stunned for a moment. “It wouldn’t be hard for him to get one if he wanted it. But what could his motive possibly be?”
“I look at everyone as a suspect these days,” Ji Xun sighed. “Let’s go inside.”
The two men entered Huo Ranyin’s childhood home. Ji Xun rolled up his sleeves and began searching through boxes, preparing to work.
“What are you planning?” Huo Ranyin asked. They hadn’t discussed this on the way; Huo Ranyin had intended to go straight back to the police station, but Ji Xun had insisted on coming here.
“Packing every notebook with writing in it to be sent back to Ning City. That includes your parents’ photo albums.”
“The purpose?”
“Handwriting analysis.”
“It’s already been done. There were no issues.”
“It doesn’t hurt to do it again. The easiest theory to form is that the diary was forged,” Ji Xun said. “I already had your diary and other writing samples from that period sent off when I arrived. Now I’m supplementing the evidence. While you can’t precisely date 20-year-old paper and ink, you can perform comparative testing of relative ages. But I have a question.”
“What?”
“I’ve been digging through your box for a while, and I only found textbooks from the second and sixth grades. Where are the others?”
“Sold to the scrap collector,” Huo Ranyin answered after a moment’s thought.
“You sold some, but kept others?” Ji Xun pointed out the discrepancy.
“It was when I was graduating primary school. The sixth-grade books were recent, so I didn’t sell them. The second-grade ones…” Huo Ranyin paused. “I kept those myself. When the auntie called the scrap collector that day, I was sorting through my things, found that notebook, and instinctively kept all the books around it.”
“You hadn’t seen it before?”
“I started living with them in the second grade. That notebook and the second-grade books were packed away by the adults. Since I transferred schools later and used new books, those were always kept in a box under the bed.”
“They” naturally referred to Zhou Zhaonan’s family. That was when Huo Ranyin began living in that tiny room. Huo Ranyin knew what Ji Xun was trying to determine, so he added simply: “They were polite to me on the surface. They rarely entered my room; they wouldn’t have touched my things.”
The incredulity he felt as a boy upon discovering the diary had long since blurred. Even more blurred was the crime recorded within its pages. Even though he tried desperately to grasp those memories, time had callously erased them. Only the immature handwriting on the white paper reminded him again and again: that was the truth of what might have happened.
Ji Xun nodded and said nothing more.
When they were together, no matter what they were doing, time seemed to fly. By the time their conversation ended, Ji Xun had finished his task. Soon after, the courier he’d called arrived to pick up the books. Once everything was packed and loaded onto the truck, Ji Xun looked at Huo Ranyin.
Huo Ranyin said, “Let’s go back to the precinct. Close this case. Don’t waste any more of their time.”
In just one morning, Huo Ranyin seemed to have completely shed the influence of those documents, efficient and decisive as always. Ji Xun was silent for a brief moment before agreeing.
At the station, it was fortuitous—Zhao Wu and the Vice Captain were both there. They had received the DNA report from the saliva found on the dinosaur toy’s threads, confirming it matched the hair left in the car.
There was no need to waste time. Huo Ranyin asked Zhao Wu for a quiet room. The four of them—Zhao Wu, the Vice Captain, Ji Xun, and Huo Ranyin—gathered, and he recounted the entire situation from start to finish to those in charge.
Ji Xun leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching. He saw the faces of Zhao Wu and the Vice Captain change from confusion to disbelief, and then from disbelief to solemnity. When Huo Ranyin finished, the Vice Captain looked as if his mouth were full of words he was struggling to swallow.
“The case as it stands here will likely have to be sealed,” Huo Ranyin said, as the law did not support pursuing legal accountability for a deceased perpetrator. “Are there any new leads on the harbor bombing case?”
“That…” Zhao Wu hesitated, a rarity—likely because what Huo Ranyin had just revealed was too shocking. But under Huo Ranyin’s gaze, he quickly regained his composure. “Not yet. But don’t worry, we are keeping a close watch. As for the Buddha statue body-concealment case, it’s complicated. I have to write a report to explain it to my superiors and follow their directives.”
“Of course,” Huo Ranyin nodded. Everything had to follow protocol; this was the greatest respect police officers could show one another. The two captains from different cities shook hands briefly and parted ways.
After sending them off, Zhao Wu rubbed his face and spoke to the Vice Captain in a low voice: “Officer Feng just said they found something at the harbor bombing site.”
“Leads?” The Vice Captain perked up, then asked suspiciously, “You were just playing games with them?”
“I didn’t lie. When we have a result, we’ll tell them. People aren’t made of iron; we are the ones in charge of the Qin City police. Let him rest,” Zhao Wu said. “I need to compile this, write the report, and submit it so the higher-ups can coordinate.”
With the case ended and no further developments, the two men had nothing to do, so they returned to the hotel.
As it happened, shortly after they arrived, Bureau Chief Zhou called Huo Ranyin. Ji Xun, standing nearby, could hear the Director’s dissatisfied roar over the phone: “You two little rascals! How are your wounds? I gave you leave to recuperate, not to supply arms to another precinct! Understand?”
Director Zhou was a man who was good in every way except for his mouth. And even if his mouth were better, his voice—loud enough to be an opera singer—wouldn’t matter, since he treated his office door as a mere suggestion. This resulted in him getting scolded by superiors for his verbal outbursts every year. But the old man never cared; he just drank his wild chrysanthemum tea, contentedly being the old leader and training his young subordinates.
“I’m fine, we’re coming back immediately,” Huo Ranyin replied.
“When is ‘immediately’?” Director Zhou pressed.
“The next train out,” Ji Xun chimed in from the side.
“Hmph, Ji Xun.” The Director’s ears were sharp despite his age. He snorted. “You get back here too! Neither of you is getting away with this; both of you come to my office!”
With the leader’s orders issued, they couldn’t delay. Checking the train schedule, they realized they had enough time. They packed their luggage, changed their dressings at the hospital, and hopped on the train, arriving back in Ning City before the night fully set in.
It was roughly 7:00 or 8:00 PM. Normally, the leadership would have clocked out, but when they reached the precinct, the light in Director Zhou’s office was still on. As they knocked, the Director’s booming voice came from within: “Enter.”
Ji Xun turned to leave. Huo Ranyin grabbed his arm.
Their silent exchange:
‘You go.’
‘You’re coming too.’
‘We both have to get scolded together?’
‘Otherwise?’
Ji Xun finally conceded to Huo Ranyin’s ‘we suffer together’ look. He stepped aside, gesturing for Huo Ranyin to go in first, while he followed closely behind, hunching his shoulders and looking at his own nose, pretending that if he couldn’t see the Director, the Director couldn’t see him.
“Finally decided to come back? Went on a trip, saw everything under the sun, got so happy you forgot which way was home?”
As they entered, the Director’s snort hit them. Director Zhou, sitting behind his desk, didn’t look at them, but continued signing documents with a flourish—Zhou Guangping.
Then, with a snap, he closed his pen.
Only then did the Director lift his face, his piercing eyes boring into Ji Xun and Huo Ranyin. Middle-aged, square-jawed, with greying hair combed back to reveal a broad, flat forehead—it was said those with such foreheads were smarter, though likely also more hot-tempered.
Before they could speak, Zhou Guangping held out his hand: “Give me your medical records.”
“…” Huo Ranyin, who had prepared a full report, had to pull out his medical file first.
Ji Xun continued to stare at the sofa, playing his “Emperor’s New Clothes” game. Unfortunately, the illusion was broken by the Director himself.
“Your arm is still in a sling, and you’ve lost your medical file?”
“…” Fine. Ji Xun obediently offered his medical file as a tribute.
Director Zhou flipped through them, nodding. “Young people have a lot of fire. Half-dead when you left, yet you’ve managed to return after half a month, alive and kicking, running around stirring up trouble. Not bad, not bad.”
“Director Zhou…”
“Director your mother!”
Huo Ranyin was cut off before he could say a second word. When agitated, Zhou Guangping was impartial enough to scold himself.
“The sky hasn’t collapsed yet! Why are you in such a rush to investigate a damn case! Your records say you need five more dressing changes, once every two days. I’m telling you, I’m giving you a week of leave. If you don’t stay home and heal properly, don’t you dare come back!”
The medical files flew back into his arms. Huo Ranyin was speechless.
“Get out, go home. Come back and report for duty in a week,” Zhou Guangping barked.
Huo Ranyin turned and left, and Ji Xun followed obediently.
“Ji Xun, stay.”
Save me! Ji Xun signaled Huo Ranyin immediately.
Huo Ranyin hesitated, thinking of the deafening shouting, and finally returned a ‘sorry, I’m out’ look before decisively leaving.
The office door closed. Only Ji Xun and Zhou Guangping remained.
“Stop yelling,” Ji Xun said, his tone deepening. “Your throat hurts, and my hand hurts.”
Looking at Ji Xun, Zhou Guangping’s iron-like expression slowly softened. He gently tapped the other medical file into Ji Xun’s arms: “Back?”
“Can’t get back, no official status.”
“…You little rascal, are you asking for a scolding?”
“But perhaps soon.” Ji Xun replied softly.
It wasn’t a return; it was getting the real answer. His gaze drifted past Zhou Guangping, toward the window behind him. From Qin City to Ning City, the location and time had changed, and the weather had followed. The morning had been bright, but by now, strong winds were blowing, and dark clouds were churning. A heavy storm seemed ready to pour down at any moment, turning the world into mud.
However,
The night ends in the dawn; after the storm, the light returns.
Zhou Guangping looked at Ji Xun for a moment, then nodded. “When you had your accident, I asked Yuan Yue to keep you company and look after you. Now, Huo Ranyin isn’t having an easy time either. Keep him company and look after him.”
“Don’t worry.”
Under the bright office lights, Ji Xun finally smiled.
“I’ll take the best care of him.”
