The morning light filtered through the dusty floor-to-ceiling windows, casting mottled light and shadow on the teak rocking chair. I curled up in the velvet cushions, rubbing my knuckles on the armrests that had been worn away by time, and the smell of mothballs and old books lingered in my nose. The sixty-year-old skin is like a piece of parchment that has been crumpled and then barely flattened, and even the movement of raising the hand is as sluggish as a gear being stuck—the original owner of this body was a legendary detective who once made criminals fearful.
The afternoon sun is like melted honey, flowing thickly through the carved handrails. I sank into the rocking chair, my joints creaking like old wood - but the young man in front of me looked like he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. His blue eyes were brighter than the waves of the Mediterranean Sea, and his straight suit made him look like a tall white birch.
When he got down on one knee, I almost thought it was some new kind of scam. Until the platinum ring was stuffed into the palm of my hand, the cold touch stung me. There is a line of small words engraved on the inside of the ring, which is almost invisible due to wear and tear: "To my eternal alibi".
My heart skipped a beat, and then I felt a sense of absurdity. This is not a romantic proposal scene.
"Ms. Lancelot," he said, with a subtle tremor in his voice, "I am Arthur Grant's nephew, Ethan."
I stared at his face that looked like an old photo, and my stomach turned.
Three boyfriends, three memories soaked in blood.
The first, a sculptor, died on the night of our engagement. The murderer made him into a wax figure, wearing the camel coat I gave him. Even the color of his pupils was adjusted accurately with acrylic. When the package arrived at the police station, there were rose petals in the box, and the card read: "To the greatest detective - your collection is just short of a masterpiece."
The second one was a forensic doctor and he always said that my eyes were sharper than a scalpel. His body was found in a garbage dump with his chest open like an empty briefcase. The head is still hanging in the corner of a certain city, perhaps looking at my aging face through the window.
And the third one, this young man's uncle, the architect whose left corner of his mouth would tilt when he smiled... I still dare not think about his last three months. The murderer peeled off his face while he was still alive, soaked his internal organs in formalin, and turned him into a smiling mummy. During the trial, the defense lawyer said it was "the ultimate pursuit of art."
"My era is over." I withdrew my hand, and the ring hurt my palm. "Today's young people like to use algorithms to solve crimes."
He suddenly grabbed my wrist, with a force that was as strong as crushing my old bones: "But the murderer is imitating the cases you have solved! The first victim was made into a wax figure, the second's chest was cut open, and the third..." His voice choked, "The third's face was nailed to the door of the city hall."
The setting sun slanted in from behind him, coating the tips of his hair with a layer of gold. In a daze, I saw three shadows stacked on top of each other, all with the same sincere look in their eyes. The rocking chair was still creaking, like someone was crying softly.
"Keep the dossier." I finally spoke, my voice hoarse like sandpaper, "But don't get your hopes up, young man. I can't even read the words in the newspaper clearly with my eyes now."
After he left, I put the ring on my ring finger. The size is just right, as if these thirty years were just a dream when I woke up from a nap. The sycamore leaves outside the window rustled as I touched the engraving on the inside of the ring, and suddenly remembered that the architect once said: "The best traps are often disguised as salvation."
Maybe my time is not over yet. Only this time, the positions of prey and hunter have changed.
Concept: All perverts have been raped