She even joked at the time, "Forensic Doctor Mo is so meticulous even when sewing gloves; his stitches are neater than the handwriting on the autopsy report."
I was stunned for a moment, my gaze lingering on the gloves for a few seconds before I belatedly realized: Oh, these belong to Qianluo.
Even that moment of stunned silence was far less intense than the heart-wrenching pain of the past, so much so that it made me feel like a cold-blooded monster.
Do I really have no heart?
Late at night, I sat in the empty living room. On the other side of the sofa was the indentation where she often sat—she always liked to put a cushion behind her back and curl up in the corner of the sofa to watch crime movies.
When she sees something tense, she unconsciously clenches my hand, her nails gently digging into my palm.
The cushion is still in its original place, but the indentation of the sofa seems shallower than before, as if she had never sat on it.
My fingertips traced the unfinished box of mints on the coffee table, the green wrappers rustling against my fingertips, the sound particularly jarring in the quiet room.
This is a candy she only eats when she's nervous; it's lemon mint flavored. She says that sucking on the candy and feeling the coolness on her tongue helps calm her nerves.
Before the last mission, she had two candies in her jacket pocket, and waved them at me as she was leaving, the wrappers gleaming in the sunlight.
She said, "Ah Yun, when I come back, I'll bring you some roasted chestnuts from the shop downstairs, the kind that's fresh out of the pan and piping hot."
They all say that doctors are used to seeing life and death, and their hearts have long been hardened to the point of iron, but I wasn't like that before.
In the past, if she was half an hour late returning from a mission, I would stand by the window like a statue, clutching my phone and staring intently at the intersection below.
The streetlights cast shadows that stretched out of length, and even the sound of the convenience store owner closing downstairs made my heart race.
Once, she was two hours late due to an emergency, and I almost rushed to the team to ask what happened.
Finally, a message from her colleague saying, "Sister Luo is wrapping things up, don't worry," barely stopped her from moving on.
My phone was burning hot from gripping it so tightly, and the screen was full of her chat history, from "Be careful" to "Remember to eat," she had sent no less than ten messages.
How did it come to this?
I dare not see Qianluo's parents again.
The last time I went to deliver her pension was on a weekend afternoon. As soon as I entered the door, I smelled the aroma of stewed pork ribs—Qianluo's favorite dish.
Auntie always says, "Luo Luo has been craving this since she was little. Every time she comes back, she has to drink two big bowls of soup."
When the aunt opened the door, she was holding Qianluo's high school photo album. In the photos, the girl had her hair tied in a high ponytail, was wearing a blue and white school uniform, and was smiling with a youthful look.
The dimples at the corners of her mouth are exactly the same as they are now.
She took my hand and gently stroked the silver couple's bracelet on my wrist with her fingertips—it was a gift we bought on our first anniversary, and the pendant was two hands clasped together.
The bracelet broke once, and my aunt discovered it and secretly took it to a jewelry store to have it polished and reattached.
She also engraved a small "Yun" and "Luo" character on the back of the pendant.
Her eyes were red and her voice choked with emotion: "A-Yun, you have to take good care of yourself. Luo-Luo is most worried about you."
She always told me, "You must be scared being alone in the dissection room, so I should call you more often and invite you over for meals."
I looked at the new gray hairs at her temples, at my uncle's slightly trembling shoulders as he turned away to wipe his tears, and at the family photo hanging on the living room wall.
Qianluo and her sister stood in the middle, each holding their parents' arms, smiling brightly.
The photo frame was one I picked out with my aunt last year; it's a brown wooden frame with a lotus pattern carved on it.
My throat felt like it was blocked by something, it hurt, and even breathing was difficult. I couldn't say a word.
I don't deserve her to remember me, I don't deserve her parents to care about me like this—I can hardly even remember what she looks like anymore.
Even the depth of her dimples when she smiles needs to be repeatedly checked in my mind. What kind of lover am I?
I even feel that I don't even have the right to be her filial son. I've almost forgotten her preferences, so how can I stand in front of her parents and receive their care?
I locked our photo in the deepest part of my wardrobe, in a camphor wood chest, with her new sweater from last winter that she didn't have time to wear on top of it—it was knitted by me.
The off-white cashmere yarn took a whole month to knit, and a small plum blossom was embroidered on the cuff. She said, "Ah Yun, you're amazing. It's even prettier than the ones you buy in the mall."
But she only tried it on once before leaving on an urgent mission and never had the chance to wear it again.
(P.S.: In reality, narcotics officers don't have photos; this is just for the sake of the story.)
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
