Forgotten Photo Studio

Chapter 58 Under the Embers
The old door of the Zhou family's house was tightly closed behind them, completely shutting out the all-consuming darkness.

The feeling of exhaustion after surviving the ordeal spread like a tide.

None of the three had the strength to say a word.

Dust motes floated slowly in the faint morning light; this ordinary sense of reality felt incredibly precious at that moment.

Just then, the sound of a key turning in the lock suddenly rang out!
The three of them were startled, their weak bodies tensing instantly as they looked warily toward the door.

The door was pushed open from the outside.

A figure walked in, carrying the chill of dew and a faint smell of smoke; it was Zhou Wenbin.

His face showed exhaustion from not having slept all night, and he was bending down to close his umbrella.

When he looked up and saw the three disheveled people who almost filled the floor of the entrance hall, he was struck dumb and froze on the spot.

The keychain in his hand fell to the ground with a clatter.

His eyes widened in disbelief, his pupils contracting in extreme shock. His gaze swept uncertainly from Xu Yan, covered in blood and with cold eyes, to Chen Zhiwei, who was weak and pale, and then to A Zhe, who looked like a mud monkey.

"You...you all..." His voice was dry, like sandpaper scraping, and he blurted out almost unconsciously, "Still alive...?"

Before he could finish speaking, he abruptly stopped, his initial shock and fear instantly replaced by a kind of worldly, almost instinctive, shrewdness.

He bent down almost immediately, picked up the keys with slightly hurried movements, and when he looked up again, his face was filled with an expression that was half reproach and half confusion, and his tone was much smoother and more natural:
"...What happened? How did you get into my house again? How did you get in?!"

But that momentary slip of the tongue, like a cold needle, was enough to pierce through the surface.

Xu Yan's eyes suddenly sharpened like a hawk's, locking onto Zhou Wenbin.

He didn't answer, but slowly and with great effort, he pushed himself up from the ground.

The wound under his ribs stung, and the mirror on his chest slumped heavily with his movement.

His back was ramrod straight, exuding an air of authority.

“Uncle Zhou,” Xu Yan’s voice was hoarse, yet cold and hard as iron, “I’d like to ask for a glass of water and rest for a bit.”

His gaze pressed down heavily on them; it wasn't a request, it was a statement.

Zhou Wenbin's gaze swept over Chen Zhiwei, as if confirming something, before quickly looking away.

He lowered his eyelids, his gaze falling on the keychain in his hand, and silently stepped aside: "...Come in first. Don't block the door."

……

By the time we returned to the Forgotten Photo Studio, it was already fully light.

Sunlight streamed through the dusty glass windows, casting a fragile golden hue over the familiar furnishings inside.

But the bloodstains on the three, their disheveled appearance, and the lingering fear in the air silently contradicted the calm.

The Mirror of Shared Life was pressed tightly against his chest, its weight constantly reminding Xu Yan that some things were beyond redemption.

Chen Zhiwei's last breath escaped.

Xu Yan settled her on the old sofa, clumsily but carefully tucking in the thin blanket.

As he pulled the thin blanket up, his fingers touched the back of her cold hand, and that instant made his heart clench even more than when he looked in the mirror.

Ah Zhe had reached his limit, his face ashen. "Brother Yan, I... have to go back."

"Okay," Xu Yan responded, her gaze fixed on the view outside the window. "Keep in touch."

Only the sleeping Chen Zhiwei and Xu Yan remained in the hall. The absolute silence made their eardrums ring.

The mirror's presence grew ever sharper, colder, and heavier, like a wedge driven into his flesh, interrogating all the silent secrets.

As he straightened up, a sharp pain shot through his ribs, forcing him to hold onto the sofa back for a few seconds.

Just then, Chen Zhiwei murmured very softly in her sleep, "...Senior Brother..."

The voice was so muffled that it was almost inaudible, yet it felt like a dull knife slowly stabbing into his heart.

Xu Yan's fingertips trembled slightly, and his eyes suddenly darkened.

He knew that the call wasn't for him, but rather the last lingering thought from the depths of her soul.

At this moment, he knew more clearly than ever that he was the only person she could rely on.

He stood there for a long time, then suddenly turned around, picked up his camera, and walked out of the photo studio.

The street corner was only three blocks from the photo studio. The world outside had returned to its daytime order and fragility, with traffic and people bustling and real, creating a cruel rift between him and the loneliness that surrounded him and the cold heaviness in his chest.

The place where I parted ways with my father was a narrow street, with police tape cordoned off the side.

Several uniformed people surrounded the body covered by a white sheet, their postures mechanical.

Scattered onlookers whispered tales of the Red Moon Night, about death, about the bridal sedan chair for ghost marriages.

Xu Yan didn't hear a single word.

His world consisted only of that white cloth.

He stepped forward, showed his identification, and his throat tightened: "I am...his son."

A formulaic display of sympathy, a numbingly formalized procedure: "Sign, arrange for a vehicle to transport it away."

The staff member casually tossed the father's ID card and personal belongings into Xu Yan's hands.

The cold indifference of official business, on the contrary, sharply erodes emotions.

Xu Yan took the pen and signed a series of his names.

The handwriting is thin and slightly trembling.

He took a deep breath and, with trembling fingers, lifted a corner of the white cloth.

Under the lamplight, there was Xu Haoyu's face, as pale as paper, frozen with the last traces of his life.

Strange and familiar.

Time seems to stand still.

His hands trembled, and almost instinctively, he gently opened his father's cold, stiff hands and reached into the inside pocket where his father usually kept important things.

The first thing I touched wasn't the fabric of the pocket, but a cold, abrupt sensation on the inside of my father's pale forearm.

It wasn't a wound, but a hard, raised bump that seemed to grow out from under the skin.

His gaze unconsciously shifted over, and a blurry yet familiar dark blue mark, like a ghost, entered his vision—exactly the same as the one on A Zhe's arm!
A chilling cold instantly gripped him, more biting than the air conditioning in the morgue.

The name "Urban Emergency Response Center" pierced his mind like a poisonous thorn.

He suppressed his surging emotions and continued to move his fingertips forward to touch a square, slightly soft protrusion.

He carefully pulled it out.

The fingertips felt a soft texture, like that of old paper, that seemed out of place at the scene of death.

It was a color photograph...

The photo shows the family of three many years ago.

The young father, dressed in a crisp police uniform, had a hearty smile.
The mother nestled beside him, gentle and shy;

While being held in his father's arms, the young child was laughing carefree, clutching a small toy car tightly in his hand.

The sun shines brightly, happiness overflows, and is frozen in this small space.

Holding this warm, faded memory, Xu Yan stood on the bustling street corner in the early morning, beside her father's cold body.

His other hand unconsciously pressed against his chest, where the cold hardness of the mirror contrasted sharply with the soft edges of the photograph.

When he buried his father, the sky was a dull, grayish-white, like a wet rag, heavily pressing down on the city.

His face was expressionless, and he was completely unaware that the rain had soaked his hair and shoulders.

Only the hands hanging by their sides, clenched into fists, with knuckles turning bluish-white from excessive force, reveal the turbulent undercurrents beneath the calm surface.

The newly erected tombstone was cold and unfamiliar, and the name engraved on it weighed heavily on him.

But he knew that what was suffocating him at that moment was not just sadness, but also a cold anger of being schemed against and pushed to the brink of despair.

She was pushed into the game by the center, while her father, who was originally a piece in that game, was coldly abandoned after his value was exhausted.

He doesn't cause trouble, but he absolutely cannot tolerate anyone treating him and those around him as pawns that can be carved or discarded at will.

The death of my father must be brought to a clear conclusion.

(End of this chapter)