The sixteenth year of the Republic of China. 1927.
"Miss Shen? Miss Shen!"
A voice came from outside the door, urgent and with a typical Shanghainese accent. Before I could respond, the door was pushed open.
A man in a gray police uniform rushed in. He is in his forties, with dark skin and a stubble on his chin. He wears a box gun on his waist, and the holster is shiny with wear. When he saw me standing on the ground, he was obviously relieved, and then frowned, as if I had done something to displease him.
"I said Miss Shen, you are a girl who has been lying in the morgue all morning. What do you think when outsiders see you? People who don't know think that our public concession patrol room used the forensic doctor as an autopsy."
I didn't say anything, just stared at his police uniform. Pinned to his chest was a copper police badge with the words "Shanghai Public Concession, Ministry of Industry Bureau Patrol Room" engraved on it.
When he saw that I was silent, his tone became more urgent: "Don't tell me that you still have a fever. Last night you suddenly fainted in the autopsy room and burned like a furnace. Inspector Tang asked me to send you back, but you were fine and ran to the morgue when you woke up. Are you here to work or to cause trouble?"
"Detective Tang?" I spoke, my voice hoarse and unlike my own.
"Inspector Tang Ziwen Tang! Your immediate superior!" The man's eyes widened, "You are not feeling confused, are you?"
Tang Ziwen. Chinese detective in the public settlement.
This name is like a key, clicking open the valve of memories - memories that do not belong to me. I saw myself bending over an autopsy table and being handed a scalpel. I saw myself writing in the notebook, with beautiful handwriting.
