"Quiet Garden" in the Autumn Mist
The autumn fog always carries a lingering chill, shrouding the suburban "Quiet Garden" in a gray, shrouded vapor. Lu Ye stood outside the iron gates, umbrella in hand, gazing at the old Republican-era Western-style building before him. His fingertips unconsciously clenched the handle. The off-white cladding had mostly peeled away, revealing the dark brown brickwork beneath, like a scabbed wound. The glass on the second floor windows had been shattered, leaving only the frames. The wind blew in, carrying the musty smell of old wood and a faint hint of perfume—the long-discontinued "Shuangmei" brand—drifting far into the mist, like a woman's sigh.
"Is this the place?" Lu Ye's voice was muffled by the fog, and his eyes fell on the bronze plaque above the iron gate. The gold plating of the two words "Jingyuan" had long been worn off, and green rust was crawling on the edges. In the lower left corner was engraved a line of very small words: "Su's Residence, the 26th Year of the Republic of China."
Qi Chen stood beside him, the Soul-Calming Bell in his pocket growing slightly hot, even more so than the last time he'd done it at Qiming Middle School, as if something were gently bumping against it. "In the 28th year of the Republic of China, the owner of this western-style building, Su Qingyuan, suddenly committed suicide in her second-floor bedroom. Her father, a businessman at the time, felt ashamed and moved the family away soon after. Jingyuan has been deserted ever since." He pulled out a yellowed old photo. The girl in the photo, wearing a light blue cheongsam, stood beneath the wisteria trellis in front of the building, her smile bright. "This is Su Qingyuan. She was only 19 when she died. She was a student at St. John's Girls' Middle School."
Lu Ye leaned over to look at the photo. The girl wore a pearl hairpin in her hair, and the collar of her cheongsam was embroidered with tiny gardenias, which strangely echoed the remaining white paint marks on the windows of the western-style building. "Did she really commit suicide?"
"Not sure." Qi Chen shook his head and pushed open the half-closed iron door. The hinges creaked like frozen bones rubbing against each other. "Old people nearby said that the night before she died, someone saw lights on in Jingyuan and heard arguing. But the police at the time investigated and said she 'complained and committed suicide due to love affairs' without even conducting a thorough investigation of the scene."
The two of them walked into the courtyard. Weeds grew knee-high, burying a half-broken wisteria trellis. Dry vines clung to the wooden frame, like tangled hair. The door to the western-style building was ajar, and a faint light shone through the crack—not from the sky, but from the phosphorescent light in the fog, a pale blue that flickered behind the door, like someone walking with a candle.
"Don't touch anything with gardenia patterns on it after you go in," Qi Chen said in a low voice. "Her resentment lingers on the items she often uses, especially those embroidered with gardenias. If they touch her, they will be dragged into her memory."
Lu Ye nodded and followed Qi Chen into the hall. A strong smell of dust, mixed with the perfume he had just smelled, hit him in the face and made him cough uncontrollably. The hall was covered with dark red wooden floors, some of which had warped and creaked when stepped on, as if there were holes underneath. The crystal chandelier in the center had lost half of its crystal, and the remaining fragments reflected a cold light in the fog, making the old furniture around it look like ghosts - a faded velvet sofa, a paint-chipped mahogany coffee table, and an oil painting hanging on the wall. The painting showed a man in a suit, his eyebrows and eyes blurred, as if he had been painted over.
"Is this painting of Su Qingyuan's father?" Lu Ye pointed at the oil painting. The frame was covered with thick dust, and the signature in the lower right corner had been scraped off, leaving only a shallow mark.
Qi Chen didn't answer. His flashlight beam swept across a pearwood cabinet in the corner. The door was ajar, revealing a blue-covered notebook. He walked over, put on latex gloves, and carefully took out the book—a diary. A gardenia was embroidered on the cover. The thread was faded, but the edges of the petals were stained with a dark red substance, like dried blood.
"Su Qingyuan's diary." Qi Chen flipped to the first page, where the beautiful handwriting read, "September 1, 1938. Today, I entered St. John's and was fortunate to meet Mr. Chen." The rest of the text mostly recorded daily school life, with the references to "Mr. Chen" becoming more and more frequent, a touch of girlish shyness permeating the lines, such as "Mr. Chen praised my handwriting and gave me a fountain pen," and "Today, I discussed poetry with Mr. Chen in the library. The evening rain fell, and I couldn't bear to leave."
Lu Ye leaned over to take a look. When he turned to the page of March 1939, the handwriting suddenly became sloppy: "He lied to me! Everything he said was a lie! That money...why did he do that?" The following pages were torn off, leaving only jagged edges of paper, as if someone had torn them off forcefully.
"What is 'that money'?" Lu Ye frowned and lightly touched the edge of the paper with his fingers. Suddenly, he felt a chill on his fingertips - not the coldness of the paper, but the coldness of sticking to ice, as if a hand reached out from the diary and gently touched him.
Qi Chen immediately closed the diary and put it in the evidence bag: "Don't touch it, it's full of resentment."
At this moment, a very light sound of footsteps came from the second floor, "ta-ta-ta", as if someone was walking in high heels, from one end of the corridor to the other, and then stopped at the stairs, as if looking down.
Lu Ye looked up suddenly, and the beam of his flashlight swept across the staircase on the second floor - there was no one there, only a faded silk scarf hanging on the railing, swaying gently in the wind. The gardenia embroidered on the scarf was exactly the same as the one on the cover of the diary.
"Is it her?" Lu Ye's voice trembled, and a layer of cold sweat broke out on his back.
Qi Chen nodded and tightened his grip on the Soul-Calming Bell: "She is leading us up. But be careful, there may be relics from her past on the second floor, and there may also be danger."
The two of them ascended the stairs, the wooden staircase creaking under their feet, as if strained by the weight. The second-floor hallway was carpeted in a dark red, moldy carpet that felt soft to the touch, like rotting leaves. Four doors flanked the corridor, one of which stood ajar, a pale blue phosphorescence filtering through the crack, the same light they had seen earlier.
"It's her bedroom." Qi Chen said softly. The moment he pushed open the door, a stronger smell of "Shuangmei" perfume hit his face, mixed with a bit of sweet powder, which made his throat tight.
The furnishings in the bedroom were simple: a carved wooden bed covered with yellowed white sheets with a human-shaped mark on it, as if someone had slept there for a long time; a dressing table was placed by the window, on which were placed a rouge box, a bronze mirror, and an uncovered lipstick, the color of the lipstick was a retro bright red, and it glowed coldly under the mirror light; the bookshelf in the corner was filled with books, mostly poetry collections and original foreign works, one of which, "Byron's Poems", had a long black hair on the cover, which looked like a woman's.
Lu Ye walked over to the dressing table and picked up the bronze mirror. The mirror was already blurry, but a vague shadow was reflected in the center: a woman in a light blue cheongsam, her back to him, her long hair loose, applying lipstick in front of the mirror. Lu Ye turned around suddenly, but there was no one behind him, only the rustling sound of the wind blowing through the curtains.
"Don't look in the mirror." Qi Chen's voice came from behind, "Her afterimage will be reflected in the mirror, and it's easy to be possessed."
Lu Ye quickly put down the bronze mirror, his heart pounding like a drum. He walked to the bookshelf and casually pulled out a copy of Shelley's Poems. A photo fell out from the pages—it showed Su Qingyuan standing with a man in a suit, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with a gentle smile and a fountain pen in his hand. It was the "Mr. Chen" mentioned in the diary. The background of the photo was the gate of St. John's Girls' High School. In the lower right corner was written "Year 28 of the Republic of China, January", exactly two months before Su Qingyuan's death.
"Could this Mr. Chen be related to her death?" Lu Ye handed the photo to Qi Chen. There was a crease on the edge of the photo, as if it had been folded repeatedly.
Qi Chen took the photo and paused his fingertips on the man's face for a moment: "It's possible. The diary mentioned 'that money', maybe it's related to him. Let's look for other clues."
Lu Ye nodded and walked to the end of the bed. He found a small wooden box under the bed. There was a copper lock on the box. There was half a piece of paper stuffed in the keyhole. It was a torn page from the diary. It said "Study...Secret compartment..." on it.
"Where is the study?" Lu Ye asked. Qi Chen's flashlight beam swept across the corridor. The doorplate on another door said "Study". The handwriting was blurred, but still recognizable.
The two of them walked to the door of the study. It was locked, and the lock was covered with thick dust, as if it had not been opened in a long time. Qi Chen took out his tools and carefully picked the lock. With a "click", the lock opened. Pushing the door open, a strong smell of old paper hit him, even more pungent than the smell in the bedroom.
There is a huge mahogany bookcase in the study, which takes up an entire wall and is filled with books and antiques; in front of the bookcase is a desk, on which are placed a desk lamp, an ink bottle, a pen, and an open pocket watch. The hands of the pocket watch stopped at three o'clock in the morning, which was the time when Su Qingyuan "committed suicide" that year.
"Is the pocket watch hers?" Lu Ye walked over. There was a gardenia engraved on the case of the pocket watch, the same as the one on the cover of the diary.
Qi Chen picked up the pocket watch and opened it. There was a small photo inside - it was a solo photo of Su Qingyuan. She was wearing a cheongsam and had a bright smile. Unlike the photos he had seen before, there were teeth marks on the edge of this photo, as if someone had bitten it in extreme pain.
"It's not hers," Qi Chen shook his head. "The pocket watch is too big, it belongs to a man. And there are teeth marks on the edge of the photo inside, which means that the person who left the pocket watch was in pain. It could be the murderer or someone who knows the truth."
Lu Ye's gaze fell on the top shelf of the bookcase, where a black box embroidered with gardenias echoed the cover of Su Qingyuan's diary. He stood on tiptoe, about to take the box down, when he heard a rustling sound behind him—the desk drawer opened on its own, and a piece of paper fell out. Written in red pen on the paper were the words: "He's lying to you. Don't trust him."
The words were written in blood, the ink still slightly damp, as if freshly written. Lu Ye turned his head abruptly; the study door had been closed at some point, the windows clanging in the wind, and the books on the bookcase began to fall one by one, thumping onto the floor as if someone were stamping on them.
"Qi Chen!" Lu Ye shouted. Qi Chen immediately took out the soul-calming bell and shook it gently. With a crisp "ding" sound, the books stopped falling, the window slowly closed, and the gloomy wind in the room gradually subsided.
"She's reminding us," Qi Chen said in a deep voice, "that Mr. Chen is deceiving her. 'That money' might be the key. There's also the secret compartment in the study, which should contain evidence."
Lu Ye walked to the bookcase and, following the clues from the corners of the pages in the wooden box under the bed, fumbled with the wooden boards of the bookcase. Behind the copy of "Das Kapital" on the third shelf, the board was loose. He pushed hard and the board opened, revealing a small secret compartment with an envelope inside. On the envelope was written "Qingyuan's Personal Letter" and the signature was "Chen".
Qi Chen carefully opened the envelope, and inside was a piece of letter paper. The handwriting was the same as Mr. Chen's in the photo: "Qingyuan, on the evening of March 17th, Jingyuan Study, I have something important to discuss with you, please don't tell anyone else." The date was March 17th, 1939, which was the day before Su Qingyuan's "suicide".
"He asked her to come to his study, and then he killed her." Lu Ye's voice trembled. "He must have embezzled some money, and Su Qingyuan found out, so he killed her to silence her and even faked it as suicide."
Qi Chen nodded and put the envelope into the evidence bag. "We can't be sure yet. We need to find more evidence, such as the source of 'that money' and the whereabouts of Mr. Chen. Tomorrow we will go to the city archives and check the information from the 31st year of the Republic of China. We should be able to find some clues."
When the two of them left Jingyuan, the fog had dissipated. Moonlight shone on the western-style building, coating the peeling walls with a layer of silver-gray, as if it were shedding tears. Lu Ye glanced back at the second-floor bedroom window. He had a feeling that Su Qingyuan's shadow was still there, quietly watching them, waiting for them to discover the truth.
"She will wait." Qi Chen said softly, as if he saw through his thoughts.
Lu Ye nodded and clenched the evidence bag in his hand. The diary and letters inside seemed to still carry the warmth of Su Qingyuan. He knew that this was just the beginning. There were more clues waiting for them in Jingyuan. Sooner or later, Su Qingyuan's injustice would be cleared.
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