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My phone vibrated in the corner of my desk, and a message from an unknown number appeared on the screen: "Your little fox is really cunning. Has she asked you about the truth she wants? Mu Tingchuan met with your little fox before he died."

Mu Tianlang gripped his phone tightly, his brow furrowing. An unknown number, a provocative tone, naming names, and even bringing up "Little Fox." What did the sender want? To sow discord, or to force him to speak? He forwarded the message to his assistant, Xiao Zhou: "Investigate the source and report back immediately." He locked the screen, his knuckles turning slightly white. Mu Tingchuan—his brother's name felt like ice against his sternum. He closed his eyes for two seconds, suppressing the chill, then got up and walked to the window, staring at the lights of the building across the street. That person said they'd "seen" him—where? When? Was it at the resort or the beach? Could Hu Li's mention of Mu Tinglang that night have been more than a coincidence? What was she looking for? What exactly did she mean by the "truth" she sought?

The wind was strong that night. He returned to his desk; the documents were still open, and the meeting schedule was packed tightly together. The clock showed 8:30, but he still hadn't left his office. Xiao Zhou knocked and came in: "The source of the information used a one-time card, skipping two intermediaries. It looks like someone deliberately took a roundabout route. I've asked the cyber security team to investigate further. Also, the media team received an anonymous tip today, which repeatedly used the term 'little fox.' It should be the same group of people."

Mu Tianlang hummed in agreement, his tone cold: "Make a list of this week's entry and exit records and parking space surveillance footage, focusing on unfamiliar faces; also, check if there have been any regular stalkers following Hu Li in the past month." He paused, then added, "I'll be back late tonight."

Meanwhile, Hu Li drew the curtains halfway and sat down in front of the easel to test paints. These past few days had been a sensitive period, and she didn't want to appear in public too often. She sent Xiao Min a voice message: "Help me make another trip to Hong Kong and keep an eye on the license plate of that white van. The key is the traffic flow around that section of the seawall that day; it would be best if you could find the owner, but if not, at least bring back the last few digits of the license plate and the model and year of the van. Thank you for your help." Xiao Min replied with an OK: "I'll arrange it now, leaving tomorrow morning."

The next morning, Xiaomin dragged her suitcase to the high-speed rail station. Upon arriving in the port city, she first went to the small shed next to the old wharf that Master Lian had mentioned, and contacted "Old Zheng"—the former head of the port area's security outsourcing team. Old Zheng was in his fifties, slightly hunched, and spoke slowly, but his eyes were bright. "You're looking for a license plate?" He took a sip of hot tea. "I have a good idea of ​​where people entered and left the station during that period. It's not like I've forgotten everything over the years." Xiaomin straightened her recorder: "Just asking about something. Did you see any temporary parking records for a white van near the embankment that day?" Old Zheng thought for a moment: "White vans are common, but that day there was one with a '7' at the end of its license plate that stopped twice. The first time was a short stop, the second a longer one. I remember it was near dusk, because the wind picked up then." Xiaomin pressed: "Could you give me a more precise description?" Old Zheng gestured: "There was a large scratch on the right rear, it looked like it had been in a collision, or maybe it was caused by poor driving skills."

Xiaomin wrote down the information and then asked, "Someone called the police that day, saying it took ten minutes to get through. Do you remember that?" Lao Zheng nodded, "I've heard people say that. The base station was under a lot of load that day, and the signal was poor by the sea, which is why it was so slow. But some people also said that someone deliberately made them wait a little longer, but I can't confirm that."

Xiaomin turned to a new page in her notebook: "There's something else. Master Lian said there were a few tourists taking pictures and looking at the sea nearby that day. Have you reviewed the surveillance footage from back then?" Old Zheng shook his head: "There are very few cameras along the coast, especially twenty years ago, many places didn't even have them; the open beach outside the seawall is a blind spot, so it can't capture everything. All the usable footage was handed over to the police according to procedure." As he spoke, he pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket: "If you want to check a car, you can go to the old newspaper office to look for old case clippings, or go to the traffic management office to borrow historical traffic data, and try to match the points from your memory first. The procedures are complicated, and you'll need someone to help you. That's all I can give you here."

Xiaomin thanked them and, as she came out, the sea breeze was blowing towards the shore. She wrapped her scarf tighter and went to the old newspaper office in the port city on the way. The milk tea-colored light in the archives room made the dust less glaring. Sister Liu, a staff member, wore white gloves and asked in a low voice, "What time slot are you looking for?"

Xiaomin applied for a summer time window.

Sister Liu looked up as if she remembered something: "Last time, Director Luo brought a young girl to check. She flipped through the pages until it was almost closing time and said she was looking for photos from the 'Places and the Sea' issue."

Xiaomin said, "Her name is Hu Li."

Sister Liu nodded: "I remember, your eyes were bright. This time I'll take you a faster route."

Instead of letting Xiaomin figure it out on her own, she directly pulled out the relevant microfilm and found several related reports in one go—a report on the sudden strong winds along the coast that day, a local version of a "juvenile delinquency" short article, a short message on "summer safety tips for resorts," and two photos submitted by readers: one a distant view; the other a small photo in the corner of the page.

Xiaomin carefully noted down the photographer's name, edition, and date at the end of the newspaper, and thanked them quietly. She then borrowed a magnifying glass to examine the two accompanying photos: in the distance, there was a white dot parked on the roadside—a white van? The image quality was too poor to identify precisely, but the location was roughly correct; in the smaller photo, a little girl in a red dress appeared to be standing behind a railing, with the coastline behind her, and the faint outline of a white car tail visible at the corner. She took several photos with annotations, labeling the smaller photo "Little girl in a red dress?" so that she could have it professionally enlarged and cleaned later, and also compare it with Hu Litong's paintings from the same period.

Leaving the old newspaper office, Xiaomin followed the lead given by Lao Zheng to find her old colleague from the traffic management department, a retired clerk named "Lao Qin." Lao Qin only opened the door halfway to let her in, and his first words were, "Investigating these old cases is thankless." Xiaomin smiled, "I just wanted to ask about the cars, just asking for a favor." Lao Qin, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, said, "The surveillance footage from that day along the coast was later merged and archived; if you want to see it, you have to go through the procedures. But here's a direction: between 4 PM and 6 PM that afternoon, three white vans did indeed pass through that intersection, one of which made a brief stop at 4:43 PM and then turned back at 5:05 PM." Xiaomin's eyes lit up, "Could you give me a screenshot of the timeline?" Lao Qin stubbed out his cigarette, rummaged through a drawer, and pulled out a slightly faded printed timeline: "This is a backup I kept myself; don't say I gave it to you."

Xiaomin took a deep breath: "Thank you."

The wind grew stronger in the evening. She flagged down a car on the roadside and headed back towards the resort. Halfway there, she called Hu Li: "I've asked everyone I could; let me give you a general overview." Hu Li was in his studio at home; the sound of a pencil scraping across paper came through the receiver. "Go ahead," he said. Xiao Min recounted the clues provided by Lao Zheng and Lao Qin one by one: "The white van's license plate ended in '7,' it made a brief stop and then returned that night; there was a large scratch on the right rear, looking like it had been in an accident, or maybe it was caused by poor driving skills; there was a small article in the old newspaper about a teenager's misdeed, with the words 'well-known business family' next to it. There are many blind spots in the surveillance cameras; they can't capture the entire open beach outside the seawall. Lao Zheng said he could take you to the traffic management office to get a letter of appeal, but you'd need a legitimate reason."

Hu Li was silent for a few seconds. "Thank you for your hard work." Xiao Min smiled. "I'm glad you understand. There's something else. I'm worried those people are keeping an eye on your whereabouts. Don't show yourself yet. I'll go again and prepare the letter from the traffic management department." Hu Li hummed in agreement, his voice a little soft. "I'll stay home obediently for the time being. Be careful." Xiao Min teased, "Don't worry, I'm stricter than you."

After hanging up the phone, Hu Li put down her pencil and went to the living room to get some water. She didn't send these details to Mu Tianlang. She only sent him a very casual message: "My drawing went alright today. I'll go downstairs to buy soy milk later." He quickly replied: "I'll be back later."

It was 10:30 at night when Mu Tianlang finally pushed open the door to his home. Only a floor lamp was on in the living room. Hu Li was curled up in a corner of the sofa, wrapped in a thin blanket, looking at a picture book. He changed his shoes, unbuttoned his cuffs, and walked over very quietly. She looked up: "You're back." He hummed in response, sat down beside her, and placed his hand on her lap: "Were you good today?" She smiled, her eyes shining like lights: "I was pretty good."

He paused for a moment, his gaze falling on her fingertips. "Try to stay home these next few days." She replied, "Okay." He squeezed her hand again. "Just say what's on your mind." She looked up at him, as if about to say something, but in the end only said, "You look tired today." He replied casually, "It's nothing." She didn't press further, took a tissue to wipe the water stains from his cuffs, and lowered her voice, "I'll leave you here tonight." He chuckled softly, opening his palm for her to hold. "Let's change the rules. You only need to do two things: eat and sleep." She was amused. "And the third thing?" He stared into her eyes. "Hug me." She agreed, her fingers intertwining with his knuckles, snuggling closer to him, the tangled threads in her heart seeming to be untangled one by one.

Assistant Xiao Zhou called at 11:00 PM: "Mr. Mu, the anonymous account is still sending hints, and we've already countered according to the map. Also, the unknown number you asked us to investigate, preliminary assessment suggests it's from the same source as the 'edited audio' one last time—it's probably the same group of people." He said "I understand," and after hanging up, his gaze returned to the unknown message, his eyes growing even colder. The wind whistled past the corner of the building outside the window, and he suddenly thought of a detail—if the "seen" was true, the meeting most likely occurred at the resort, not the beach. Because the open beach outside the seawall is near a blind spot, not captured by surveillance cameras, but the resort entrance would have complete visitor records. So, who used the word "seen"? What did the other party actually see, or were they just using pieced-together fragments to scare him?

He got up and went to his study, pulled up the resort's old files from that year, his fingertip slid across the touchpad, stopped on a list of names, paused, and sent an instruction to the legal department: "Inquire with the resort property management about their backup visitor sign-in sheets and the front desk's handwritten records, dated summer of XX year. Focus on verifying the temporary parking signs and visitor names, and also retrieve all entry and exit records for that week." He then sent a message to Xiao Zhou: "Have the IT team list 'Little Fox' as a keyword and analyze account associations."

In the living room, Hu Li pulled the blanket tighter, listening quietly to the sounds of pages turning and keyboard clicking in the study. She picked up her phone and looked at the photos Xiao Min had sent back—blurry newspaper illustrations, a printed timeline, and a handwritten guess of the license plate's last digit. She zoomed in and out of the photos, finally writing only a few words on a sticky note: "Large scratch on the right rear / License plate ends in 7 / Ask traffic management again." She sent Xiao Min a fist-and-palm emoji and then put her phone down again.

After what seemed like an eternity, the study light went out. He came out, sat down beside her, and pulled her into his arms. She nuzzled against his chest, half-jokingly, half-seriously, "I was very good today, what's my reward?" He lowered his head and kissed the crown of her head, his voice soft, "I'll take you for soy milk tomorrow morning." She smiled and nodded, "Deal." He hugged her even tighter, as if trying to keep the outside wind out the window.

The night deepened. A breeze whistled through the cracks in the building, like an invisible thread binding their breaths to the same rhythm. The phone screen on the coffee table lit up silently again; a new anonymous message popped up: "You think she's really just doing some research?" His eyes turned cold. She reached out and covered the screen, whispering, "Don't look." He placed his fingertips on the back of her hand, his voice softening, "I won't look."

The next morning, Xiaomin sent over a more detailed statement: Old Zheng had made a phone call and said that a temporary outsourced driver, surnamed Han, who had been staying at a relative's house in the port city, spoke with a northern accent and had an old scar on his right ring finger. He said the taillight had been "scratched by a child riding a bike." Xiaomin wrote, "I've arranged to meet him next week." Hu Li replied, "Be careful, I'll wait for your news in Beijing." She put her phone back on the table and turned around to find Mu Tianlang already fastening his cufflinks, standing in the entryway watching her. She winked at him, "Go ahead and get busy, I'll cook your favorite food tonight." He nodded, "Stay home as much as possible." She gave him an OK sign.

The door closed, and the room fell silent. She returned to her drawing, picked up her pencil, and began to draw, stroke by stroke. The coastline, the railing, the slope. She took a deep breath and whispered to the paper, "Just the facts."