Underneath the dusty brown paper bag was a photo of a four-year-old boy with prominent cheekbones and empty eyes. There was dust on a window sill at the end of the corridor of the teaching building. Someone's fingerprints were left on the door handle of the women's toilet cubicle. The boy kept saying the same sentence over and over in the interrogation room. Later, someone tore off the sticker from the wall, someone dug out a crossed-out name from an old file, and someone gestured for a long time between the rusty key and the keyhole, but never inserted it. The searchlight outside the window came on on time every day, and the tea in the cup cooled and was refilled. No one said anything, but something had moved.
