Chapter 11: The Rusted Lock Speaks

At six in the morning, the city hospital’s corridor was washed in a cold, white glow. The fluorescent tubes above hummed steadily, like a taut wire scraping again and again against one’s eardrum. The thick, bitter scent of disinfectant swirled down from the vents, seeping into the collar of the olive-green jacket, stinging the throat until it tightened uncomfortably.

Song Zhao stood at the corner, the chill of the tiled floor seeping through his soles, leaving his feet tingling. His gaze lingered on the figure by the dialysis room across the hall—Sun Lihua’s short hair was as disheveled as a crumpled and then flattened piece of paper, with a few specks of dried skin still caught in the strands. She was curled up on a plastic bench, knees pressed to her chest, clutching a wrinkled drawing with both hands. Crayon red, yellow, and blue blazed under the light, the words "Go, Mom!" scrawled crookedly across the page. Beside them, a tiny figure with a nurse’s hat had a penciled-in smiley face—an afterthought, as if a child had tipped up on their toes to add a last dash of hope.

His Adam’s apple bobbed; a metallic tang rose in his mouth—the blood crust from where he’d bitten his tongue last night had softened and come loose. Three days ago, in the interrogation room, this clerk—who always polished her badge until it gleamed—had cried that she only wanted her child’s surgery fees. Now, the bruises beneath her eyes spread like ink, her skin so thin it nearly revealed the veins beneath, her gaze hollow as a dry well, refusing even to reflect the world.

“Officer Song?” A nurse pushing a treatment cart passed by, the metal wheels clattering as they hit the floor’s seam, jolting Song Zhao from his reverie. Medicine bottles chimed in the steel tray, crisp as ice cracking. He reached into his pocket for a manila envelope, his fingertips brushing its rough surface. Inside was the folded "Emergency Medical Expense Assistance Application," with a note attached: "The provincial office can expedite this, but you must sign a full statement." He crossed to the bench, dropping the envelope at Sun Lihua’s feet. She jolted as if scalded, her knees striking the bench with a dull thud, and the drawing fluttered to the floor, leaving a faint crayon mark on the tiles.

“Xiaoyu’s…” She lunged for the drawing, freezing as her fingers touched the paper. Her nails had a bluish tint—the mark of long night shifts and too much disinfectant. She looked up at Song Zhao’s badge number, pupils trembling—the number she knew best. For three years, she’d logged his evidence in and out every day, always saying, “Mr. Song’s cases—page three of the register is always the cleanest.”

Song Zhao said nothing, taking two steps back to lean against the wall, the cold tiles pressing against the back of his head, his breath pooling hot and damp in his mask. He watched her trembling hands retrieve the manila envelope, the knuckles white, as if she were clutching not papers but her very last gasp of air.

When a tear fell on the "Applicant’s Guardian" line, he heard her voice crack in a broken sob: “They said… as long as I keep quiet, Xiaoyu can get into the ICU…” Each word scraped raw, as if sandpapered with blood. His phone vibrated—Su Wan’s message: "Arrived at Lin Training Center, looking for a chance to access the archive." He pulled out his cigarette pack then put it away, the filter leaving a faint scent of tobacco and tar on his fingers.

As he turned away, he saw Sun Lihua press the note to her chest, smoothing out the creases again and again as if clinging to the last piece of driftwood. He didn’t wait for her to speak, striding toward the elevator—some truths, he knew, had to be unearthed with an altogether different hand.

The glass facade of the Lin Training Center reflected the cold light of the nine o’clock sun, casting Su Wan’s blurred silhouette back at her. She stood at the front desk, hugging a manila folder, the hem of her pale blue shirt tucked neatly into beige trousers, cuffs pressed sharp—a picture of a library employee making a charity follow-up.

The air conditioning hummed, stirring a stray lock of hair against her brow, tickling lightly as it passed.

“Our city library’s student aid program needs to verify borrowing records,” she said with a smile, handing over her staff ID. Out of the corner of her eye, she scanned the computer screen—"Zhang Xiaoyun" appeared at the bottom of today’s class schedule, the slanting font like a silent cry for help.

The archivist, a middle-aged woman with round glasses, eyed her warily but, seeing the official letter stamped with the library’s seal, led her slowly into the back room. The wooden door closed with a soft click, shutting out footsteps from the hall.

Labels reading "Spring 2023 Student Aid Class" were peeling from the archive cabinets, revealing the yellowed tape beneath. Su Wan’s fingers brushed the archive boxes, dust clinging and itching at her skin. When she reached the stack labeled "Zhang," her fingertips paused, as if shocked by static.

Pulling out Zhang Xiaoyun’s registration card, her breath caught. The edges were rough from frequent handling. The handwriting in the name field was narrow and slanted, rising from left to right—exactly like Li Xiaoyun’s signature in her elementary school yearbook. What made her pulse race further was the faint pencil tally marks on the back of the card. Counting the twenty-third line, her nail pressed a crescent-shaped mark into her palm.

“This child borrows The Insect World every Wednesday,” the archivist remarked, breath carrying the scent of old tea. “Strange, really—three months borrowing the same book.” Su Wan nodded, smiling, her finger pressing the camera shutter on her phone. As the screen lit up, she felt her temples throb—this wasn’t a disappearance, but a prison disguised as "student aid." Those tally marks marked days spent locked away.

She retreated to the fire escape before calling Song Zhao, her voice low after the iron door sealed out echoes: “Song Zhao, Zhang Xiaoyun’s signature matches Li Xiaoyun’s exactly, and there are 23 pencil marks on the back of the card—they look like a count.” On the other end, silence lingered for two seconds; she heard the rustle of papers, then Song Zhao’s breath: “Stay where you are. I’ll have Dong Lan check the training center’s surveillance access immediately.”

Evening at the evidence center was quieter than usual. The fluorescent lights flickered now and then, casting shifting shadows. Song Zhao stood at the door of the data recovery room, watching Dong Lan’s fingers fly over the keyboard, the tapping like raindrops on a tin roof. The blue glow from the monitor made the darkness under her eyes more pronounced, like patches of pooled night.

“Sun Lihua’s computer logs are restored.” She opened an encrypted folder, the mouse click chiming confirmation. “She accessed internal files for the ‘Child Psychological Intervention Project.’ There’s a note: ‘Students must undergo regular memory reconstruction counseling.’”

“Memory reconstruction.” Song Zhao echoed the words, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, as if testing for poison. He remembered the letter his father had forced into his hand before his death—the last line, “Don’t act rashly,” blurred as unreadable fog, the paper’s edge still tinged with the scent of medicine.

He straightened abruptly, clicking "Access Archive"—as the system prompted "Operation recorded," his heartbeat thundered, rattling his eardrums. Someone was erasing memories, and he was determined to be the hammer that broke the lock.

At two in the morning, the evidence center’s lights cast cold, pale shadows on the glass, like a frozen portrait of the dead. Song Zhao pressed the USB drive Sun Lihua had left into his palm. The metal was icy, and as the golden patterns spread through his vision, sweat prickled at his nape and slid down his spine, his collar clinging damply to his skin.

This was his fourth time using the "Eye of Truth." No sharp pain this time, only a dull, swelling ache, as if a wire were slowly twisting inside his skull. As the images flickered by, he saw Sun Lihua’s back—she sat at her workstation, computer screen aglow, headphone cord swaying gently against her collarbone.

"Remember, you’re just passing on data. Don’t ask what it’s for." Zhao Zhenbang’s voice leaked through the headphones, as impatient as ever, his words dragging out like a snake’s tail across the floor.

Song Zhao squinted; in the background, the distinct "tick-tock" of a clock sounded—the old pendulum clock unique to the city bureau’s logistics department, the rhythm of its brass pendulum one he knew by heart from countless childhood nights in his father’s office.

When the golden patterns faded, he wiped the sweat from his temple, his fingers cold and damp. This time, the golden finger’s reaction was steadier, as if echoing his growing resolve.

"Mr. Song." Dr. Chen’s voice came from behind, his steps so light they barely stirred the air. The elderly coroner held a photocopy, its edges rough, clearly snatched from old files. "At the scene of the dismemberment case five years ago, I collected an empty vial of sedative." He lowered his voice, Adam’s apple bobbing. "The batch number matched the Lin Training Center’s pharmacy. Someone called in a favor; it wasn’t in the report."

Song Zhao took the copy, his thumb tracing the edge of the photograph. In the evidence bag, the silver vial gleamed coldly, the batch number on its label like a knife wound carved into memory.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Dong Lan, his voice sharper than it had been in a long time: “Get ready to file for a surprise inspection of the Lin Training Center’s psychological intervention suite. And—look into the external experts for the ‘memory reconstruction’ project.”

After hanging up, he looked out at the empty desks of the technical team. Where once evidence boxes had crowded every corner, now only his coffee cup remained in its old spot, a rim of brown tea stain circling it like the rings of frozen time.

Wind slipped through the window cracks, making the papers on the desk flutter like whispers. Suddenly, he smiled—for this time, he was no longer alone.

Beyond the window, the night was deep as ink. The provincial department’s assistance application lay on his desktop, its title—"Charity Organization Pharmaceutical Compliance Inspection"—flashing in and out on the screensaver. Some locks, rusted shut for twenty years, were finally ready to be opened.