Harbor City Echo
The night was like a cloth repeatedly crumpled by dampness, and the sea breeze from the port city swept in, its salty taste sticking to his throat. Chen Chen returned to his resort room, making no elaborate plans or digressions—this time he would only focus on Lao Song's line of work, putting everything else aside for the time being. He placed the folder on the table and listed three things to do from tonight until tomorrow morning: first, confirm Lao Song's current residence and work schedule; second, arrange a meeting at the small teahouse next to the old staff dormitory; and third, prepare a timeline, specifically asking about the period "after Mu Tinglang delivered Xiao Hu's gift to the front desk."
He wrote down the list item by item in great detail: — Front desk duty log for that night: who signed in, who signed out, who submitted the memo; — Who delivered it to the front desk: which member of the Mu family? Did Lao Song see it with his own eyes or relay the information? — After delivery, where did Mu Tinglang go: did he leave or stay at the front desk; — Did the front desk contact the "family": who came to pick him up, when they arrived, and the pick-up procedure.
He first called HR, and an old colleague helped him find a retired staff contact list, saying that Old Song now lived in the innermost row of the old staff community and habitually went to the teahouse across the street for Pu'er tea in the morning. Chen Chen simply replied: "Okay, I'll be there at seven tomorrow morning." He hung up the phone and abandoned all other investigations he had originally planned. He knew that Hu Li was also investigating, and if both sides started investigating at the same point, it would easily lead to a collision. They needed a single, firsthand witness to solidify the connection "after it was delivered to the front desk."
He folded the sticky notes, pulled out another one, and wrote a single line of red text: "Known: Old Song's telephone testimony - the person who delivered Xiao Hu's gift to the front desk was 'Young Master'."
This line is like a nail, first hammered into the center of the table. The nail signifies: the existing narrative is inconsistent with memory—Hu Li missed a section, and Mu Tianlang may have taken certain details for granted. What needs to be done is to examine each of those "taken-for-granted" details one by one.
The night wind rustled against the window, and the resort's streetlights flickered in and out of the trees. Chen Chen reviewed the questioning process again, especially the two core points of contention: First, whether the "delivery subject" was indeed Mu Tinglang himself, or, as Lao Song said, the "young master"; second, Mu Tinglang's position and behavior "behind the front desk": leaving, lingering, or waiting with the Hu family at the front desk.
He drew a small box at the bottom of the sticky note:
[Note] Things happened twenty years ago; memories can fade, evidence can break down, and it's almost impossible to have a clear record based solely on video footage. This trip will only involve asking people, only Old Song; we will not pursue other subplots.
He capped his pen, turned off the light, and rested, focusing on one image in his mind—would Old Song's hand tremble as he held the teacup in the teahouse the next morning, and would his gaze wander as he looked towards the door? What he needed wasn't a brilliant deduction, but a few grounded, interconnected "yes" and "no" statements.
As dawn broke, he arrived at the teahouse ten minutes early. The windows were fogged with condensation. Old Song, wearing a faded coat, sat by the window with an old-fashioned flip phone beside him. Chen Chen introduced himself, explained his purpose, and laid out his questions directly on the table, offering no other clues to avoid misleading his memory. Old Song paused for a moment, then nodded: "I remember that night you mentioned. I'm getting old; some details are hard to recall. Ask me slowly."
Chen Chen placed the recorder in the center of the table. He first confirmed Lao Song's duties and position that night, and then divided the time into three segments: "before it was delivered / when it was delivered to the front desk / after it was delivered."
Old Song's first sentence hit the nail on the head: "Of course I recognize the boss's son, the eldest son. It was the eldest son himself who brought the little girl to the front desk that night. He explained that the little girl was lost and asked if our front desk had received any reports from departments looking for a child; so we called each department according to procedure. Because it would take some time, I had the little girl sit in the lounge area next to the front desk and wait. At first, the eldest son stayed with her, keeping an eye on the door; later, he checked his watch several times, told me he had something to take care of, entrusted the girl to our front desk, and went home. The front desk kept getting calls, so I told the little girl to sit and wait for her family."
Chen Chen pressed further, "What about Mu Tianlang?"
Old Song held the rim of his cup and thought for a moment: The second young master was still young then, only ten years old. I didn't see him at the front desk that night. According to our schedule at the time, the second young master was usually playing in the pool at that time (sometimes he was taking a basic lesson with the coach). As for the front desk, I mainly kept an eye on the young girl and the paperwork. The eldest young master handed the person over to us and then left. The young girl was very quiet, holding a piece of paper in her hand the whole time. Later, she let go of it, and it fell to the ground—it was a form from the hospital.
Chen Chen circled the key points:
— The eldest young master personally escorted the person to the front desk;
— The second young master was only ten years old at the time. Old Song did not see him appear at the front desk. He should have been in the pool at the usual time.
— The front desk contacted the family, and the family arrived shortly afterward;
— Xiao Huli was calm at the time and had a doctor's order or referral slip in his hand.
Finally, he asked only one crucial question: "Who mentioned 'the beach' that night?"
Old Song shook his head: I don't recall it. I was busy registering and making phone calls; my mind was focused on the procedures. As for the seaside, I only heard about the accident later from others—it happened on the seawall—but the young woman at the front desk didn't mention it. Whether someone mentioned it or not, I really can't say for sure.
The answer is clear—there's no immediate direct connection between the front desk and the "beach"; the "beach" appears in subsequent incident information, so we'll mark it as an external event for now and investigate further. As for the point that "the person who delivered it to the front desk was the young master," that's a primary and relatively stable memory point.
Chen Chen put away the recorder and confirmed with Lao Song that they could meet again to ask about any missed details. They also exchanged contact information; Chen Chen handed over his business card, asking Lao Song to call him anytime if he remembered any other details or felt he had overlooked anything. As they left the teahouse, the sea breeze blew into the corridor, and the wooden door creaked. He knew that this was it for today—once this was settled, they could discuss the rest later.
After returning to Beijing, Chen Chen sent back the key information: Old Song's statement was confirmed—the eldest son was sent to the front desk, and the second son was often at the swimming pool at the time; the front desk contacted the family according to procedure, and the young girl waited quietly.
When the message popped up, Mu Tianlang was sitting in his office. The city view outside the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched out in layers. He pressed his knuckles to his lower lip, staring blankly at the keywords. He was thinking about how to talk to Hu Li. If he went straight to the point, would he be putting undue pressure on her? If he didn't clarify things and they both investigated in the dark, could what they pieced together still be considered the truth? Or would it just be half-truths presented from their respective perspectives?
He placed his phone face down on the table, then flipped it over again, back and forth twice, as if he were balancing between two approaches. He knew very well that these kinds of old cases relied on "mutual verification"; if the two people concealed things from each other, anyone could slip in prejudice. He stared at the screen and finally let out a long sigh, deciding on a compromise—to be honest about the progress of "Old Song's line," to postpone other unformed speculations, and not to cast an unnecessary shadow on her; at the same time, they agreed on a synchronization principle: whenever it was a key point, they would make things clear to each other, so as not to let things go astray.
He put away his phone and documents before getting up. Next, he was going to see her. She had just come out of the studio, her palms dusted with graphite powder, her hair casually tied up, a strand falling down her forehead like a white flame. He stood at the door watching her, a string in his throat seeming to loosen slightly with a touch of his fingertips. She looked up, her smile clean and pure, but a hint of wind seemed to hide in the corners of her eyes, gently receding.
She said, "You're back." Her tone was casual, but her back straightened unconsciously. He didn't answer first, but instead used a handkerchief to carefully wipe the dust from her palm, his fingertips slowly tracing the lines of her hand, as if untying an invisible knot. She felt a tickle from his touch and playfully poked his chest: "President, could you speak first before you touch me next time?" Her voice was soft, like a fox's tail brushing against his heart—both obedient and mischievous. He let her brush, his voice deepening, becoming even softer: "Recently…have you had some things about paintings, about memories, that you haven't told me?" Hu Li lowered her eyelashes, hesitated for a few seconds, and didn't reply. He then continued: "I was afraid that if I were too direct, it would put pressure on you—but if I didn't explain clearly, I was also afraid that if we each investigated separately, we wouldn't piece together the same truth."
The light in her eyes paused for a moment, like the moon hitting the edge of a cloud. She understood him—a wolf's keen senses could never be hidden. She decided to cut to the chase, locking the studio door from the inside. The two sat down against the paint-stained table, knees touching, neither willing to yield. She spoke first: "It started with that phone call from my mother. Her first question that night was, 'Are you very busy lately? Don't be so busy that you forget important dates.' I asked her, 'What important date?' She paused: 'Mu Tinglang. You were there that year. You really... forgot?'"—Mu Tinglang was Mu Tianlang's brother; that accident was an old case. She added, "Don't think that just because you're on the Mu family's side, everything will be wiped clean. Accident or deliberate—someone should remember." I asked her, "Who are you referring to?" Only breathing came from the other end of the line: "Think for yourself. What you did that night, whose painting you took, which road you took back—I know better than you." I told her to finish her sentence, but she only said, "When the time comes, I will help you. I will also help you return what is owed." It was the same name I saw at the cultural center exhibition; and it was also in Hong Kong. Once, while painting on a secluded beach, a shadow suddenly flashed through my mind—a purple vine on the sand, seemingly real yet unreal, I couldn't tell. So I went to find the answer. But the fragments I had weren't enough to piece together the whole picture.
He listened, his fingertips tapping lightly twice, then twice more, as if pressing each word of hers into his heart. He flipped his phone screen-down and said in a low voice, "I received Chen Chen's reply—it only addresses Lao Song's situation, nothing else. The key point is: my brother took you to the front desk, and the front desk contacted your family according to procedure; I should have been at the pool at that time. I'll put these things on the table for now, without making any further speculations."
She looked up at him and gave a soft "Mmm": I actually guessed you knew I was investigating. Lately, my paintings always seem to focus on the lamp by the front desk, the curve of the chair back, and the condensation on the glass. Maybe these are the fragments I haven't yet pieced together. She took a breath and smiled softly: "So it turns out you brothers have all taken care of me." I was afraid I was wrong, and I was also afraid you'd take some things too literally.
He asked in a low voice, "What are you afraid of?" She didn't dodge, nor did she try to be strong: "I'm afraid that the scales in your heart have been tipped. I'm afraid that one day you'll look back and find that the lost memories didn't just appear out of nowhere, but that someone sprinkled salt between us, causing what should have sprouted to wither and die. I'm afraid that someone will use my name to do things I wouldn't do, and that in that instant, you'll subconsciously side with the rules."
He pulled her close, holding her tightly, like catching a fox whose heart was still adrift. He whispered in her ear, "I will believe you, and I will believe myself. I'll tell you the truth about Lao Song; I'll tell you what you can about your paintings and memories; I'll also address your worries and doubts. We'll just put your paintings, my statements, and our memories on one table, leaving no room for anyone to impose their prejudices." He looked at her, his voice softening, "Do you remember if you were sick when you were six?" She hesitated, then shook her head, "I don't think so; my mother was going to the hospital a lot back then. She wasn't in good mental health then, and my father was having an affair, so she often suffered from insomnia." When he released her, his lips lingered on her forehead. She looked up, her eyes crinkling slightly, as if in defiance. He lowered his head and gently bit her, as if declaring, or perhaps marking. She laughed and scolded him for being naughty, but inwardly, her tail was secretly curling up.
Afterwards, he returned to the Mu family's old house. At night, the old house was like a well sealed with time; the shadows of the old trees in the courtyard were low, and the moss was soft like a layer of old velvet. A breeze blew in the corridor, causing the paintings to sway gently. His silhouette was reflected in the glass. He pushed open the study door. His mother sat by the window, holding a very old letter, its paper yellowed. She looked up, her gaze sweeping over him before sliding away, as if afraid something would fall if she looked up. He called out, "Mom." She responded with a soft voice, as if she had just woken up.
He sat down, not placing the bundle of documents he had brought on the table—not wanting the room to be pierced by the sharp edges outside. He started by asking about the people: who called that day, what time, what was their first words; how did you get there, who did you meet on the way, what did you see at the scene? He asked detailed questions, like feeling every undulation along a crack. His mother rubbed the corner of her letter between her fingers, not looking at him, only gazing out the window. She said that during that time she was depressed, often unable to sleep soundly, as if someone was chasing her from behind, making it hard for her to breathe. She said that as soon as she received the call, she would run outside, her hands shaking so much that she couldn't fasten the door lock properly, and she even put her shoes on the wrong feet, only realizing when she got to the car that her left and right feet were different. At this point, she smiled, a faint smile, like forcing down a drop of something too sour.
He didn't laugh along; he needed to get to the bottom of things. He asked: Who did you see when you arrived? Where was the police tape? What did the police say? She closed her eyes, as if pulling things out one by one from a deep pool of water: many people, cries, the muffled sound of waves crashing against the shore; a man draped his coat over a girl's shoulders, and the girl kept apologizing, saying she shouldn't have gone near that section of the embankment. She said she looked for a long time before she saw a stack of crumpled papers soaked in rain on the ground—a referral slip from a hospital, the edges covered in mud.
He listened, feeling a cold needle pricking his back. His mother said the police later gave the verdict: it was an accident; the sea breeze was strong that day, the waves were high, and the tide was rising. The child was swept away by a wave, got stuck in a gap in the breakwater, and couldn't get back up—he drowned. Mu Tinglang was twelve years old then. No one really wanted to hurt anyone. He asked: Do you believe it? His mother didn't answer directly, but folded the letter back into the envelope, pressing her fingertips to the seal for a long time before looking up at him. In those eyes was something he often saw in his youth: gentleness, with an unyielding thorn embedded within. She said: I choose to accept it, because not accepting it wouldn't have led to any other outcome. Then she turned her gaze back to the window, as if returning to a place where she could breathe.
He asked: Did you contact the police again, or ask anyone else to pursue it? She said: Yes, the result was always the same, the reports were clear, the conclusions were neat, like someone had smoothed out the rough edges. She said she was tired and didn't want to throw herself into a bottomless pit anymore. She said: If you want to pursue it, I won't stop you, but don't throw yourself in. As he listened, the stone in his throat sank all the way down, from his heart to his stomach, and then down to the dark place below.
He said nothing more. As he stood up, his fingertips brushed against the old letter; the paper was rough, like calluses worn into skin by time. He turned back at the door and saw his mother still sitting by the window, like a stone left in the wind for many years—unbroken.
He stepped outside; the night dew was chilly. He let the cold air into the car, started the engine, and the dashboard lights up—a row of lights. He pressed the speakerphone button and dialed her number. She answered quickly, her voice carrying the sound of water washing brushes. He said, "I'm on my way." She said, "Just drive carefully." He responded softly, "Okay." She didn't say anything more, but through the receiver, she seemed to nudge him with her tail—"I'm here."
He went upstairs, and she opened the door, her eyes lighting up briefly before dimming again. She stepped aside, and he closed the door behind him, leaning against it and looking down at her; she looked up at him—like two people who had walked on different paths for a long time, finally able to catch their breath under the same roof. He didn't rush to talk about the old house; he first pulled her inside, his forehead brushing against her collarbone, like burying his head in a familiar yet feared warmth. He paused there for three seconds before looking up: "I went to ask." She said it was an accident, and the whole process pointed to the same conclusion—clean, as clean as if someone had wiped it clean.
She listened, her gaze sweeping across his face before returning to him. She asked, "Do you believe it?" He said, "I believe someone wants us to believe it." Then he told her everything he had heard at the old house, without omitting anything or adding any personal embellishment.
At night, she leaned on his shoulder, her fingertips tracing circles on the back of his hand, circle after circle, like slowly pulling him back to shore from deep water. Neither of them rushed to speak, nor to embrace too tightly, both knowing each other carried thorns—to remember. Outside the window, car lights flashed by, the light slipping through the curtains and across the wall, step by step, like time learning not to disturb them. Mu Tianlang slowly closed his eyes in that light, his breath finally aligning with hers—two melodies misaligned for years finally tuned together that night. The wolf rested its jaws on the fox's forehead, not biting, but leaving a trace of warmth between its teeth. He understood that this path wouldn't end because of anyone's "accident"; he also understood that from tomorrow onward, every loophole left by manipulation would have to be recovered, every trace blown away by the wind would have to be erased stroke by stroke. They didn't make any declarations, only pressing an unfading touch onto each other's skin, as a starting point.
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