When I woke up, my pillow was completely wet, and my heart felt like it had been hollowed out.
But who can I tell? Who can I tell that "I think I don't love her anymore. I've almost forgotten what she looks like, what her voice is, and what her favorite mints taste like"?
Nobody will understand. They'll just think I'm cold-hearted, heartless, and that I've let down the woman who sacrificed herself to fight drug dealers and protect others.
Even I feel that I am unforgivable and that I am not worthy to think of her again.
The moonlight shone in through the window, casting cold white beams onto the dissection table through the gaps in the blinds, much like the light I used when I prepared Qianluo's body for her funeral.
The dissection table still held the instruments that hadn't been cleaned up yesterday: hemostats, suture needles, and scalpels, their cold metallic gleaming in the moonlight.
A faint smell of formaldehyde lingered in the air, a smell so familiar it made my heart race.
I remember the first time Qianluo entered the dissection room, wearing a blue mask, only revealing a pair of round eyes, looking around curiously and a little scared.
She walked up to the formalin jar, pointed to the organ specimens inside, frowned, and whispered, "Ah Yun, you look at these every day, don't you have nightmares at night?"
I even chuckled and ruffled her hair, pulled her close, and let her lean on my shoulder.
She said, "With you here, I'm not afraid of any nightmares."
Besides, these specimens hold the truth, and I must find the truth for those who cannot speak out, so that they can have peace of mind.”
She nodded as if she understood, then reached out and took my hand. Her palm was warm, with the sweet scent of mints, and her fingers gently clasped mine tightly.
What was her voice like then? It was clear and crisp, like a summer wind chime, tinkling and ringing, full of youthful vigor.
It's still a bit soft and chewy, like a freshly steamed glutinous rice dumpling, gentle and tender, making you want to get closer.
When she speaks with a smile, her voice trails off, soft and gentle like a kitten's meow.
Do you unconsciously slow down your speech when you're serious, making sure every word is clear?
I tried desperately to think, my temples throbbed, and my head ached terribly, as if countless needles were pricking my nerves. My vision even started to go black, and I couldn't even stand steadily.
Tears fell without warning, landing on the cold metal surface with a soft thud.
Then it shattered into small water stains, which were quickly absorbed by the air, as if it had never existed.
Just like the traces of Qianluo in my memory, they are gradually erased by time, leaving almost no trace at all.
I reached out, trying to grasp those fading memories, but they slipped through my fingers like grains of sand, impossible to hold onto no matter how hard I tried.
It turns out that the most painful thing is not the moment of loss, not the cold touch on the autopsy table, not the paper money flying everywhere at the funeral, not the instant collapse when seeing her belongings.
Instead, as time goes by, even the taste of loss, even the traces of her existence, slowly fade from memory.
I'm afraid that one day I'll stand in front of her tombstone, looking at the police badge on it, but I won't be able to remember her face.
I'm afraid that one day, when I see tactical gloves, mints, and a beige dress, I'll only feel that they look familiar, but I won't remember who left them there.
I'm even more afraid that one day, I'll become numb to the pain I feel when I think of her, and I won't be able to call out her name anymore.
That feeling of helplessness and panic made me more desperate than ever before.
All I could do was silently repeat her name in my heart over and over again: Qin Qianluo, Qin Qianluo, don't leave me, don't let me forget you...
But my memory is like a leaky pocket. No matter how hard I try, everything about her is slowly slipping away, leaving no trace.
I wiped the scalpel on the table repeatedly on a soft cloth, the blade reflecting the creases of my white coat.
Even the fingerprints worn into the handle over the years are clearly visible—this knife has been with me for five years, from the specimen table in anatomy class to the clinical practice room.
That summer, however, it didn't dare touch Qianluo's body.
I carefully wrapped the blade in medical gauze and stuffed it, along with the faded white coat, into the canvas bag.
The frayed edge of the cuff caught on the bag's zipper, just like Qianluo used to clutch this spot and mutter, "I'll sew you a piece of fabric of the same color next time, otherwise you'll look like a little doctor begging for food."
Her voice still seems to echo in my ears, but no matter how hard I try, I can't remember if she frowned when she spoke.
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