Pour M, qui a inspiré cette histoire.
1
This was the third time in two days that he had come to this hotel. As soon as he stepped into the lobby, the front desk staff recognized him. Even so, he still flashed his badge: Binhai District Criminal Investigation Division, Third-Class Superintendent, Yeh-ming.
“Good afternoon, Inspector Yeh!” The receptionist had already prepared the room key.
“Good afternoon, Shelly.” He took the key and headed toward the elevator.
The room was at the end of a long corridor. Standing at the doorway, he scanned his surroundings. Although he had been here before, this corridor, this room—still puzzled him.
Deep in thought, he swiped the key card and entered. The door shut behind him. It wasn’t his first visit. He was already familiar with the room. Yet an underlying sense of vigilance prevented him from relaxing. Slowly, he surveyed the space.
At a glance, it looked like a typical hotel room—a queen-size bed, a desk, a minibar, a wardrobe. But on closer inspection, there was nothing ordinary about it.
The entire room was a uniform seal gray—walls, carpet, chairs, bedding, all in an immaculate shade of gray.
The walls had irregular geometric shapes. In a standard room, all four walls would be even, but in this room, they varied in height. Near the entrance, the wall extended high, reaching flush with the ceiling. But as one moved further in, the walls sloped lower, and by the time they reached the rear window, they were almost within arm’s reach.
The ceiling was just as unusual. At its center, two skylights were embedded at the top of a suspended loft structure. Through the glass, a small section of the sky was visible—now thick with clouds.
Even considering its location at the end of the corridor, there was no clear reason for the room to be designed this way. If it were a suite, reserved for special guests at a premium price, that might have been understandable. But it wasn’t a suite. Perhaps a designer’s whim? Where was the logic in it?
He shook his head and walked to the front window. Before him, the sea churned under the heavy gray sky. The beach was deserted, littered with debris from last night’s storm.
On the other side of the room, two small rear windows—meant for ventilation but not for opening—looked out onto the hill behind the hotel. The damp pines still dripped with rain.
He pulled out his police terminal and refreshed the page. No updates on the missing person’s case. No new information.
There was no conceivable way someone could have left this room without using the door. Even if there had been another exit, the hallway security cameras would have caught it. The exterior surveillance around the hotel would have caught it.
People don’t just vanish without a trace.
As Yeh-ming stepped out of the hotel, he felt just as puzzled as before.
He had intended to head to the parking lot but suddenly changed his mind and turned toward the beach. As he descended the short steps leading from the hotel entrance to the shore, he stopped and glanced back at the building.
A three-story, mid-sized hotel, built along the coastal highway, its back against the low rolling hills, barely visible in the mist.
If someone had escaped through the front windows, even with assistance—or under duress—it was hard to imagine no trace left behind. The skylights were too high and could not be opened. No chance. And the small rear windows? Theoretically possible, but in reality—implausible.
The wind picked up as he walked along the shore. After some distance, he stopped and gazed across the bay.
On the horizon, massive freight ships loomed through the thick mist, their cranes extending outward like skeletal arms, frozen in the vast expanse of sea and sky.
On his way back, he cast another glance toward the hotel.
A missing person case—Right before the New Year. Of all places, here? He shook his head again.
2
Back at the Major Crimes Unit office, Yeh-ming sat in his cubicle, skimming through case files on his police terminal while eating tea eggs and a few vegetable buns he had picked up from a street vendor.
The police received the missing person report on February 15th and formally classified the case the same day as a suspected criminal disappearance.
The missing woman was a university professor attending a two-day academic conference at a seaside resort hotel. She failed to show up on the second day of the conference and remained missing even after the event ended. Her family and university ultimately reported her disappearance to the police.
From the start, the case was riddled with uncertainties.
Initial electronic data analysis confirmed that her phone had been turned off on the night of her disappearance. Unusual? Perhaps. But on its own, not necessarily significant. Her WeChat chat logs contained no records for that day. Again, unusual—but not impossible.
What stood out the most, however, was that the biological evidence collection team had found nothing of value.
The missing woman’s background was unremarkable—40 years old, married, mother to a seven-year-old child, no known marital disputes. She had few social connections and was well-regarded at her university.
It was hard to imagine who would want to harm her. A jealous colleague? A student she failed? A business she criticized in a review? Sure, people love to entertain theories like that. Just scroll through the internet—every day, shocking headlines pop up. But if you bet on it? Most murders and kidnappings don’t happen for reasons as shallow as those.
If evidence eventually proved this was a criminal case, it would be a rare exception. Twenty years as a cop, and Yeh-ming had never seen a case quite like this. If it turned out to be a homicide, it would be one for the books—a future case study to train junior detectives.
If it wasn’t? Then it would still be a remarkable anomaly—a lesson in how life mimics art, how bizarre fiction sometimes becomes reality.
A shadow stopped near his cubicle. It was Chen Hao, a young officer, carrying a thick stack of case files.
“Boss Yeh, tech forensics just sent over the West Suburb Dismemberment Case records.” He set the files down, then glanced at Yeh-ming’s screen. “You’re still looking into that hotel disappearance?”
Yeh-ming smirked.
“I’ve been reviewing security footage. Seven people left that corridor—still no sign of her. I need to close this loop.”
He gestured toward a thermos on his desk.
“Help yourself—fresh Pu’er.”
Chen Hao poured himself a cup, took a sip, and grimaced.
“Cold.” Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. “Just passed the duty room. New Year’s shift schedule is out.”
He muttered after a bit, “Saved up 15 days of annual leave last year. Task force chewed through 14 and a half.”
Flipping through the schedule, he suddenly grinned.
“Hey, what do you think—if we saved up all our vacation days until retirement, could we take a 10-year break?”
Lowering his voice, he added, “I heard from Wang-jie that when her son was hospitalized with pneumonia… we were out staking out drug traffickers.”
Yeh-ming grabbed his car keys.
“I’m heading to the missing person’s residence now. Might need to go back to the hotel tomorrow. That corridor—I need to take another look.”
At the door, he suddenly paused, then turned back.
“Oh, and before 7 AM tomorrow, slip your final case report under my door,” he said, his tone serious.
“That way, you lose your right to complain about losing all your vacation days.”
3
The Lunar New Year was just days away.
Stepping into the gated community, one could immediately feel the festive atmosphere. Most homes had already decorated their doors and windows with red banners and celebratory prints.
But the missing woman’s house was a stark contrast. It stood cold and unadorned—no red decorations, no festive banners.
Inside, there was only her husband. A typical office professional—neatly dressed, well-mannered, and fully cooperative with the investigation. But today, his face was gaunt with exhaustion.
The house was a classic upper-middle-class residence—a standalone two-story home, spacious rooms, and tastefully designed interiors. The furniture layout and choice of household items reflected a person with refined taste.
As Yeh-ming passed by one of the bedrooms, he noticed an open case of light beer beside the bed. The cardboard flap was torn, as if it had been ripped open hastily.
He pushed open the study door. The faint scent of sandalwood and tea lingered in the air. One side of the room was lined with semi-open wooden bookshelves, each level separated by delicate bamboo partitions. Several Pu’er tea cakes, wrapped in plain cotton paper, bore handwritten labels marking their vintage.
Nearby, sealed vermilion clay jars contained rock teas, their lids affixed with handwritten notes—“Phoenix Dancong,” “Rougui,” “Shuixian.”
Atop the highest shelf, four intricately carved tin canisters stood perfectly aligned—from their labels, Yeh-ming recognized that they contained Mingqian Longjing. A faint layer of condensation clung to the inner glass panels of the cabinet.
On the third shelf’s left side, a set of deep-hued Yixing clay teapots was arranged with precision. Their surfaces were smooth and warm, carrying the patina of years of careful use.
Beside them, an inverted celadon tea bowl rested on a bamboo tray, and a silver tea needle lay motionless in a velvet-lined case, its surface catching the cold gleam of light.
A half-unwrapped tea brick leaned against the shelf partition, its cross-section revealing delicate golden buds—likely the Dianhong the missing woman had last brewed.
The entire tea cabinet was arranged with astronomical precision, like a star chart. The six major tea types were meticulously aligned in order of fermentation level. Even the placement of the tea knives and needles was measured with exacting care, as if the owner might return at any moment, ready to revive a dormant tea with the perfect infusion of spring water.
“I grew up in a farmer’s household. I don’t understand tea culture. There are just too many rules.” Yeh-ming muttered to himself.
He stepped into the yard, where silence pressed in around him.
The case files had mentioned that the missing woman loved gardening—an attentive caretaker of flowers.
As he walked, his gaze drifted over withered flower beds and pots lined along the porch.
Near the brick walls, delicate vines with tiny blue blossoms still clung stubbornly to the cracks, their slender tendrils gripping the weathered crevices. The once-vibrant petals had faded to a dull sapphire, their edges curled.
Everywhere he looked, there were traces of a gardener’s careful hands—Now frozen in time.
As Yeh-ming rounded the corner of the house, a familiar scent drifted toward him—light, sweet, lingering in the cold air.
He looked up.
A wintersweet tree stood quietly by the wall, its golden blossoms blooming beneath the gray sky.
4
Two days later, the Major Crimes Unit discovered a female body in the woods behind the hotel, on a hillside not far from the room where the missing professor had stayed.
For a brief moment, Yeh-ming felt a jolt of anticipation—had they finally found her? But that fleeting sense of relief vanished as soon as the forensic team arrived.
The body was badly decomposed, partially buried beneath layers of dead leaves and frost. This was not a recent death. According to the forensic team’s estimates, the remains had likely been there for months—if not longer.
The body belonged to an unidentified female. No ID. No personal belongings. No immediate connection to the missing professor. The location—so close to the hotel—suggested a possible link. But the timeline told a different story.
Who was she? Why had she died here? And why had no one ever reported her missing? This was a crime, without question—But not the one Yeh-ming was investigating.
72 hours passed. The missing professor’s case remained at a standstill. The police collected DNA samples from her family and entered them into the national database. No matches.
A cross-check of unidentified bodies in hospitals and morgues also turned up nothing.
The cybercrime unit scoured the dark web, searching for keywords related to human trafficking and organ sales, hoping to uncover suspicious transactions. No results.
Without sufficient evidence to sustain a criminal investigation, there was a real risk that the case would be downgraded to a routine missing person case, handed over to the local police station for standard search procedures.
Yeh-ming fought hard to keep it classified as a criminal case, and after some reluctance, the deputy chief agreed— for now. He was grateful—but also overwhelmed with guilt. The case backlog was severe, and everyone was already working beyond their limits. On top of that, there was the department’s annual clearance rate to meet.
If this case dragged on indefinitely, it wouldn’t just frustrate his superiors—His colleagues would start resenting him too.
The pressure was mounting.
5
On New Year’s Eve, Yeh-ming was on duty. His colleagues deserved a break—besides, he was long divorced, living alone, with no ties to hold him back. Letting others reunite with their families was the least he could do.
At dinnertime, the unit chief pushed open the door, raindrops still clinging to his police-issued overcoat.
“Old Yeh, my wife made dumplings—brought you two boxes.”
He glanced at the monitor wall. “No system malfunctions, I hope?”
Yeh-ming gestured at the clear surveillance feeds filling the screen.
“Relax. You could see stray cats fighting between the rocks on the beach.”
Not long after the chief left, Chen Hao burst in, carrying a thermal lunchbox.
“Boss Yeh, got you the last scoop of Four-Joy Meatballs from the canteen! Zhang-jie says you like the fatty ones.”
On New Year’s Eve, the police canteen provided free dumplings, but the Criminal Investigation Unit often missed out due to casework. Thus, the tradition of ‘snatching dumplings’ was born.
Yeh-ming lifted the lid and smirked.
“She minced the ginger that fine—trying to hide the taste of my nicotine gum?”
Although the case was still classified as criminal, in reality, it had already been downgraded. Personnel and resources had been redirected elsewhere. But he couldn’t let it go. If the missing woman had met with foul play, then who was responsible? She had no known enemies, no debts, no dangerous ties. Her life trajectory showed no signs of someone at risk of kidnapping or murder.
If this wasn’t a criminal case—then how else could it be explained? A woman in her prime, with a thriving career, a stable home, and a young child—What reason could she possibly have to vanish overnight?
People don’t just disappear.
Even if you weren’t a cop, you’d understand that much. He stared at the case files, flipping through them again and again—As if the answers were buried between the lines, waiting to be unearthed.
A delicate woman, disappearing from a hotel room with hallway surveillance. No camera footage of her leaving. No signs of forced entry or escape through a window. No body. The missing person alerts the police had issued—no responses.
He needed to watch the surveillance footage again. Replay. How many times had he gone through it already? The long corridor. The missing woman entering. The missing woman leaving. From then until the police report—no one else went in or out. Parking lot cameras. Beachfront surveillance. Rear hill footage from the southeast corner of the third floor. Everything was there. Everything had been checked. Nothing unusual.
He went back through the case files, scanning through photos. Two caught his attention. They were from her university years—One of her standing on a small arched bridge, holding a parasol. Another by a pavilion, hands clasped in front of her, holding a small purse. It must have been hot that day—or maybe she had just grown tired of being photographed. Her face carried a subtle weariness, a pensive look. What stood out? Her hands were always placed in front of her. Her feet were always together, like a well-brought-up young lady. How many twenty-year-old women still stood like that these days? You wouldn’t even need to think hard—just scroll through social media for five minutes to find out.
Of course, there was no need to overanalyze it. People had their habits—small, unconscious things. But feet always together? That was rare. Imagine rushing for the subway, missing the last train by just a second—Would someone who always kept their feet together be able to sprint for it? If they wiggled their hips while running, would that elegant demeanor still hold? If they dropped something, how would they bend down to pick it up? If someone shouted, “Fire!”, would they stay rooted in place?
Yeh-ming thought: “If someone keeps their feet together, maybe there’s a reason for it.”
Then he shook his head. “Overthinking it again! Isn’t unnecessary over-analysis a cop’s biggest pitfall?”
“Chen Hao was right,” Yeh-ming admitted to himself. “I’m old-school. I can’t keep up with the times.”
Further down in the file, more photos—From ten to fifteen years later. She was always in long dresses or Hanfu. No photos wearing pants. That part, he couldn’t figure out. If a woman was insecure about her figure, it made sense that she’d always wear skirts. But this missing woman—even in dresses, her silhouette was striking. So if it wasn’t about body image, then why? Was it simply a love for flowing garments?
A man who had only ever been married to a nurse, briefly, would never understand women. He couldn’t fathom why the Flying Apsaras in Dunhuang murals had become a fashion trend.
Maybe he needed to ask someone. Even if he got mocked for it, as long as he got an answer, it would be worth it.
6
Yeh-ming attended a case review meeting—unrelated to the missing person case at the hotel.
As squad leader, he sat to the right of the Criminal Investigation Unit chief. On the table before him was an official document:
Arrest warrant.
Case number: “Hong Public Binhai Criminal Arrest [2023] No. 087.” Stamped in red: “Hongshan City Public Security Bureau, Binhai District Branch.”
After the meeting, he returned to his police terminal, browsing through photos of the missing university professor.
That’s when he noticed a detail he had previously overlooked—One photo appeared to be from her teenage years. She wore a pink blouse, her eyes lowered, her expression shy as she sat behind a tea table, brewing tea. Behind her was an open tea shelf, displaying various tea leaves and teapots. The setting didn’t look like a home—it seemed more like a public space, possibly a teahouse.
Another photo—She appeared to be in her late twenties, nearing thirty. Wearing a long black dress, her hair neatly tied into a bun at the back of her head. She looked poised and elegant, seated behind a tea table, brewing tea. Once again, an open tea shelf stood behind her, lined with various teas and teapots. The setting still didn’t resemble a home—again, it looked like a teahouse or similar establishment.
If there was one glaring detail in this case, it was tea. Tea at her home. Tea in her photos. Her case files were filled with tea-related information—records, notes, even entire conversations revolving around tea.
The missing woman, it seemed, was a true tea enthusiast.
Yeh-ming knew nothing about tea. He drank plenty of it, but never paid attention to what he was drinking. To him, tea was just tea. One cup or another—what difference did it make? He decided to delve deeper into her world. And he would start with tea.
After the New Year holiday, he ran into Chen Hao and casually asked:
“Where do people go for tea these days?”
Seeing the young officer’s confused expression, he quickly clarified:
“I mean, like a teahouse. Do people still go to teahouses these days?”
“Of course they do, Boss Yeh!” Chen Hao nodded. Then, with a grin, he added, “But things aren’t quite the same as before, Boss Yeh. If you’re interested, there’s a good teahouse nearby—‘Pouring Fragrance.’”
“I just turned forty. Am I really that outdated?” Yeh-ming thought as he walked toward the restroom. Before stepping out, he glanced both ways to make sure no one was around—Then, he stared at his own reflection in the mirror.
“To these young guys… maybe I really am out of touch.”
7
Yeh-ming reserved a table for two and arrived low-key.
Why two seats? He wasn’t sure. A professional habit, perhaps—to keep others guessing, to lower their guard? Or maybe, just to ease his own discomfort. He had never imagined himself stepping into a place like this—a place of ‘culture.’
Inside the teahouse, the lighting was soft. A long wooden table was neatly set with celadon tea ware.
The tea master, dressed in a pale moon-colored qipao, tapped the lid of her teapot, producing a clear, rhythmic sound. Wisps of tea mist curled into the air, drifting like silk beneath the glow of hanging lanterns.
He informed the tea master of his reservation for two. She nodded gently, offering a warm smile.
He sat down to wait. But the agreed time came—And went. The other seat remained empty.
“Tea is best shared, of course,” the tea master said with a smile. “But drinking alone is no less enjoyable.”
Yeh-ming thought for a moment. She was right. He sighed, then gestured for the tea service to begin.
The tea master moved with grace and precision—warming the cups, carefully measuring the delicate tea leaves.
“Sir, for our first tea today, I have selected West Lake Longjing.”
She ran her fingertips lightly over the leaves, feeling their delicate texture.
“See how they resemble sparrow tongues? Their green hue carries a faint touch of yellow—this is Shifeng Longjing, the finest, harvested before the Qingming Festival.”
She tilted the teapot, allowing 85°C mountain spring water to flow gently along the cup’s rim. The tender tea buds unfurled, standing upright like spears in formation.
She offered him the cup, watching as Yeh-ming examined the pale golden infusion.
“Take a moment to inhale—Can you catch the scent of roasted beans, with a faint trace of orchid?”
He took a deep breath, then sipped.
“Clean and refreshing… completely different from regular green tea.”
The tea master smiled.
“Longjing is renowned for its vivid color, rich aroma, sweet taste, and elegant shape. Every tea tree in this plantation grows in quartz-rich soil.”
She set aside the Longjing and prepared the next tea.
“Next, we have Fuding White Hair Silver Needle.”
She opened her palm, revealing down-covered buds.
“This is the beauty of white tea—naturally withered under the sun for 72 hours, processed without rolling or kneading.”
She poured boiling water directly over the leaves.
“Watch how the silver needles rise and fall in the water—don’t they look like white egrets spreading their wings beneath the moonlight?”
The tea shimmered, its buds dancing weightlessly. She placed the cup before him with a serene nod.
“It carries a pure, delicate taste, as crisp and cooling as a mountain spring—perfect for calming the mind and soothing summer heat.”
Yeh-ming took a sip. The liquid felt light, almost weightless—clean and soft, lingering on his tongue before he swallowed.
“This… feels even gentler than the Longjing.”
The tea master reached for a Yixing clay teapot, her hands steady and practiced.
“For our third selection, let’s try Anxi Tieguanyin.”
The dry leaves hit the hot teapot, producing a crisp ringing sound.
“Listen—this ‘golden-stone resonance’ is the mark of a fine charcoal-roasted variety.”
She lifted the kettle and poured from a high angle, allowing the tea leaves to unfurl as a rich orchid fragrance filled the air.
“Look at the liquor—a bright amber gold, deep and clear. At first, you’ll notice a floral fragrance—then, as the taste unfolds, it reveals layers of ripened fruit and honeyed sweetness. This lingering complexity… we call it ‘Guanyin Charm.’”
She poured carefully, filling his cup just to seventy percent.
“Be careful, it’s hot—a fine Tieguanyin holds its fragrance even after seven infusions.”
Yeh-ming gazed into the golden liquid, watching the ripples settle. He brought the cup to his lips.
“The aroma… it really unfolds in layers.”
The tea master retrieved a fairness pitcher, her wrist turning gracefully as she poured, the tea arcing smoothly into the cup.
“Tea is like life—Only by savoring it slowly can you truly understand its essence.”
Her fingertips glided lightly along the rim of the teapot, feeling the warmth that still lingered. The tea mist curled upward, spiraling around her fingers like calligraphy strokes suspended in the air.
“If you listen closely,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper,
“Perhaps… you’ll hear the tea speaking to you.”
Outside, the bamboo leaves swayed with the wind. The lingering scent of tea rose gently, drifting through the air like a brushstroke in silent motion.
8
If there was one profession that could be compared to a criminal investigator in terms of its odd working hours, it had to be nursing. Yeh-ming knew this all too well—His first and only marriage had been to a nurse. If he had one piece of advice to give about marriage, it would be this:
“If you’re a cop, never marry a nurse.”
Yet, lately, he found himself drawn to the tea masters at the teahouse. Ever since his first visit, he had returned several times. Each time, he learned something new—Not just about tea, but about life.
There was one thing he found both fascinating and puzzling—The level of professionalism these tea masters maintained at work. Their ever-present smile, never too much, never too little. Their precise, delicate hand movements. Their graceful, composed posture. They were warm, kind, engaging—Yet always maintaining a sense of distance.
Even their speech felt calculated—stilted, almost ceremonial—As if they existed in a world separate from their guests.
In his line of work, the world was divided into two things: Logic and chaos. A good detective’s job was to find logic in what appeared to be messy, disorderly, and senseless. At the end of the day, logic was all that mattered. Posture, symbolism, rituals, aphorisms—They were distractions. Without logic, they were meaningless. They could either lead you astray or serve as road markers—Nothing more.
But in the world of tea, the logic was reversed. Essence was inseparable from appearance. Form was inseparable from content.
To his old way of thinking, tea was just something to quench thirst. You drank it when you needed it, and once it was finished, that was that. By that logic, what was the point of all these elaborate tea rituals?
And yet, the contradiction—Lately, he hadn’t found the rituals meaningless at all. He had, in fact, become more and more drawn to them. If he kept coming back, there had to be a reason. If there was logic in all this, it was a kind he had yet to understand.
Watching the tea master brew tea, Yeh-ming sometimes felt himself slipping into a strange sense of identification—As if he himself were the tea master, Performing the same ritualistic sequence at the teahouse.
On the table, there was tea, water, delicate cups. In his hand, he held a string of prayer beads, his fingertips unconsciously counting them, one by one. And across from him, the guest—Just another piece of the ritual.
Suddenly, a wave of emotion surged through him. Tears welled up in his eyes. He snapped back to reality, quickly regaining his composure. “What’s happening?” The feeling unnerved him.
“What’s wrong with me? This is ridiculous! I’m a grown man. A police officer. A criminal investigator who has seen life and death firsthand!”
He straightened his back, casually adjusting his clothing—Hoping the tea master hadn’t noticed his momentary lapse.
9
The missing person notice had been up for nearly six months—Yet, there were no viable leads. Neither the missing woman’s former employer nor her family had reached out to the police.
A joint meeting was convened to reassess the case, bringing together the Criminal Investigation Unit, the Technical Squad, and the local police station. The final decision: the Binhai Hotel Missing Person Case was to be downgraded from a criminal case to a routine missing persons case and transferred to the Public Security Bureau. In the National Missing Persons Information System, its status was updated to “Long-term Unresolved.”
With the downgrade, cooperation notices were suspended, and the public missing person announcement was removed. Biological samples from the missing woman and her family remained in the database but were no longer subject to routine cross-checking. The primary case file was archived in the bureau’s records, while a duplicate file was sealed, requiring Tier-3 clearance for access.
Leaving the joint meeting, Yeh-ming returned to his office cubicle. A chill settled in his chest—like autumn’s last breeze, like leaves drifting to the ground. A fading season. It was time to let go of the case. At least, that’s what he told himself. Thinking back, he had been working on this case for over six months.
But old habits died hard. Among the missing professor’s case files were several academic papers—ones he had never found time to read. And even if he did, he doubted he would understand them. But today, he made up his mind. One last look. One final read-through. “Then,” he told himself. “I’ll let it go.”
The first paper on his screen: “Bayesian Estimation Methods for Partially Linear Additive Space Lag Quantile Regression Models.” Free-knot spline fitting… Approximating unknown functions with non-uniform B-splines… Knot placement dynamically optimized using the Markov Chain Monte Carlo algorithm… Reversible-jump Markov Chain Monte Carlo… He read the abstract several times. Still didn’t understand a word.
He moved on to the next document. An unpublished manuscript: “Dynamic Reaction Functions and the Existence of Nash Equilibrium in the Cournot Oligopoly Model.” The abstract discussed proving the existence of Nash equilibrium—verifying the lattice structure of strategy sets and the supermodularity of payoff functions. Tarski’s Fixed-Point Theorem, applied to multi-firm competition, proving the equilibrium solution set’s non-empty compact convexity. Markov Perfect Equilibrium. And so on.
In the margins, a handwritten note: “For n=3, equilibrium price elasticity ε=1.83.” Yeh-ming frowned. Could this be some kind of encrypted coordinates? Didn’t make sense. None of it did. He had spent an entire morning reading—and understood nothing. Time to take a walk.
Pouring Fragrance. Same Teahouse.
His usual tea girl wasn’t there today. But by now, he was a familiar face. No longer feeling out of place. In fact, these days, he felt more at home here than Officer Chen Hao, the young rookie.
“Just Pu’er today,” he said.
When the tea was ready, he took a sip—quietly. Lost in thought. His mind wasn’t really on the tea. After a while, he looked up—his eyes falling on the tea girl. He just stared. She noticed and gave a bashful smile.
“Inspector Yeh, is the tea not to your liking today?”
He opened his mouth to speak—but before a word could leave his lips, it hit him. An idea. Sharp. Sudden. Out of nowhere. No warning. No build-up. The first time it crossed his mind, he froze. Not just shocked—but deeply unsettled. Something about the thought felt off. Unnatural. Like it didn’t belong. Like it shouldn’t be there. So much so that he needed a moment just to process it.
But once it entered his mind—it wouldn’t leave. It was too powerful. So compelling that he couldn’t help but believe it had to be true. What if this case had never been a criminal case at all? What if it had been a staged disappearance from the start? What if everything he thought he knew—was just an illusion?
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Maybe from the very beginning, there was never a victim. Only a missing person. Two questions immediately followed: How could someone vanish so completely? And why would someone choose to disappear?
The first question was easy. It was all about perspective. Once he stopped thinking in terms of “kidnapping,” the “How?” suddenly had plenty of possible answers. Some of these were so obvious even an ordinary person could come up with them. For instance, she could have used a body double — a sibling, perhaps. On the first day of the conference, it was her. On the second day, a double entered the hotel room instead. Or—she could have booked two hotel rooms in advance. During the conference, she could have switched rooms unnoticed, blending into the crowd.
No matter how advanced technology became, it always had blind spots. Surveillance cameras miss things. There are always ways to exploit those gaps. Relying solely on technology had its limits. The difficult part wasn’t the how. It was the why.
Why would a successful woman with a seemingly perfect life choose to vanish?
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Why?”
As a police officer, he relies on common sense, reason, and logic, and lets the clues speak for themselves. That’s enough for ordinary crimes. But when it comes to understanding people—their choices, what they value, and what they regard as meaningful—how much does he really know?
For the first time, he felt a keen, almost painful awareness of his own limitations.
Out of nowhere, an old song from the ’80s started playing in his head—“I’m just a little bird, I want to fly, but I can’t fly high.” He sat there, lost in thought. Motionless for a long time. Then, out of the blue, he snapped back to reality.
“Have you ever heard that song?” he asked suddenly. The tea girl blinked. “What song?”
“Ah… never mind.”
He suddenly felt embarrassed. “I’m getting old. It’s just an old song.”
10
He didn’t return to the precinct. He just wanted to walk along the river for a while. It had been a long time since he last came here. Work had kept him too busy. And even when he had come before—It had always been for work. But on this day, he just wanted to walk.
He followed the riverbank for a while and arrived at a small recreation area under a bridge pier.
There were roller skaters and skateboarders—Mostly teenagers and young adults. One of the roller-skating girls reminded him of his ex-wife. Back when they were dating, they used to come to places like this. She loved roller skating.
Why do people like certain things, certain places, certain people—And not others? Take him, Yeh-ming, for example. Since he was a child, he had always wanted to be a police officer. Why a police officer? Why not a doctor? Why not a teacher? Why not pursue money? If he couldn’t earn money, he could always steal it, right? And if there were no thieves, what would be the point of having police officers like him? Of course, if he had chosen that path—It would be others chasing him, not the other way around. But what does that really prove?
In the blink of an eye, he had reached his forties. Just being a police officer—Twenty years had already passed. And the next twenty? It would probably fly by just as fast.
He didn’t know how long he stood there—Just watching the young people skating and gliding.
Then, he kept walking along the river. A towboat went by. Then a ferry passed, its horn blowing. The sky was gray and overcast. In the afternoon haze, the sun struggled to break through.
That old song came back to him again:
“I’m just a little bird, I want to fly, but I can’t fly high.”
Maybe she was also a little bird—One that once dreamed of soaring high. To fly high—That was an aspiration. A longing. Yeh-ming had once had his own dreams. She had once had hers. Everyone had.
But she—Had she flown high once? Who knows? It was hard to say. Maybe she was still soaring high somewhere. Or maybe—today, she was just a nameless little bird, simply flying. Just flying, like the graceful tea girl in front of him. A small bird, free in the sky. Flying was no longer an ambition. No longer a dream. Just freedom.
Some people might say: “What a cruel kind of freedom.” Yeh-ming thought to himself: “People who say that… they have their reasons.” Still—He envied those who had the courage to live as they wanted—to be a little bird, to live simply, as an ordinary person, if that’s what it took to be free.
At that very moment—His police terminal rang.
There was a case. He was needed. Yeh-ming quickened his pace back to the riverbank parking lot. Switched on the siren. The police car sped toward the crime scene.
Yego’s Chronicles 