I bit my lower lip hard, the metallic taste spreading in my mouth, forcing back the heat welling up in my eyes—I am a forensic pathologist, I cannot cry, I cannot break down, I must let her leave with dignity.
We must let her leave this world, which she once fought so hard to protect, in the best possible way.
The lights in the dissection room stayed on all night. The stark white light fell on her, making her skin appear as thin as paper.
The cold hemostats and suture needles trembled in my hands; each touch felt like a slow, agonizing torture of my own heart.
I used cotton swabs dipped in saline solution to carefully clean away the blood and dirt from her face, not even daring to miss the tiny grains of sand clinging to her eyelashes.
Holding the suture needle, I carefully followed the lines of the wound, trying to make the stitches look as neat as possible—she always said I was skillful, even my sewing was neater than hers.
This time, I want her to "praise" me again, even if she can't say anything more.
When I checked her pockets, I felt something hard – it was the strawberry-flavored lip balm I bought for her last week; she always says her lips get dry when she's on missions.
The cap of the lip balm wasn't screwed on tightly, and there was some blood on the balm. I gently wiped it clean with a tissue and then screwed the cap on tightly.
Then I put it back in her pocket—as if I were accompanying her on the last leg of her journey.
She always loves to apply the mauve lipstick I bought her in front of the mirror, and after she finishes applying it, she'll come close to me and wave it around.
Her eyes curved into crescents: "Ah Yun, look, isn't this both smart and unobtrusive when going on a mission?"
But now, she lies there quietly, her lips pale and cracked. She will never smile at me again, never ask me to touch up her lipstick, and never complain that the shade I bought was too light.
Fortunately, she can't see what she looks like now.
She's so vain that she'll pout and throw a tantrum if her bangs are cut badly, and she'll secretly put on anti-friction pads before wearing new combat boots.
The girl who would secretly rejoice for half a day if I complimented her on how good she looked in her police uniform would definitely punch me in anger if she saw herself like this.
She said, "Forensic Doctor Mo, why did you make me look so ugly? No way, I need to redo my makeup!"
I gently stroked her cheek; the skin my fingertips touched had already lost its warmth, like a frozen river surface in winter, even the lines were icy cold.
Tears finally streamed down her face, landing on her cold cheekbone and instantly spreading into a small wet patch.
At that moment, I dared not think too deeply about whether she was in great pain in the last moments of her life.
Do you want to call my name, but don't have the strength to speak?
Are you still thinking about the roasted chestnuts at home, or the snow we promised to see at Changbai Mountain?
It was very windy on the day of the funeral.
The white paper money was blown about and flew everywhere, like a group of butterflies that couldn't find their way home.
Qianluo's mother leaned on my shoulder and cried until she fainted, repeatedly saying, "My Luoluo didn't even have time to wear a wedding dress." She was only able to stand up with the help of relatives.
I was wearing a crisp police uniform, with the pen she gave me pinned to my chest—a pen she bought for me when I received my first commendation—and I stood at the very front of the crowd.
She looked down at the black and white photo on her phone—in the photo, she was wearing a police uniform, standing in front of the team flag, smiling brightly and confidently.
Sunlight fell on her hair, as if she had never suffered any injustice, as if she would never leave us.
Her comrades lined up to salute, their leather shoes clicking on the cement floor, each sound like a hammer blow to my heart.
A young police officer, with tears in his eyes, said, "Sister Luo sent back a message yesterday saying that she would take us to eat your braised pork after the mission is over."
I remember how she always praised my cooking skills in front of her comrades, saying that my braised pork was even more delicious than that of restaurants. But now, the meat in the pot is cold, and she will never taste it again.
It turns out that losing your loved one doesn't mean your heart goes empty all at once; it feels like being repeatedly cut by a dull knife, with every breath bringing a lingering pain.
Even while eating, sleeping, or walking, I would suddenly think of her, and then my heart would clench, and tears would fall.
Later, every time I sorted through her belongings, I would open that dark brown wooden drawer—that was where she specifically kept her "treasures".
Hidden inside was our couple's bracelet; the silver chain had been worn smooth by her, and the pendant was two clasped hands.
There was also a note she had secretly slipped in, with her delicate handwriting, though a little messy, indicating it was written in a hurry.
"Ah Yun, let's go see the snow on Changbai Mountain after this mission is over."
I checked, the snow there can be knee-deep. We can build a snowman, put your forensic hat on it, and dress it in my police uniform.
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