"Isn't that right?"

Fiona completely collapsed.

She slumped over the table, wailing bitterly.

Like a lost child.

But as we watched her, there wasn't a hint of sympathy in our eyes.

In broken fragments, she spilled everything.

It turned out that after killing Snow, Fiona had been restless.

She constantly felt her sister’s eyes staring at her from the darkness.

She had sought out a Feng Shui master supposedly from Southeast Asia.

The master told her that after a murder and body disposal, resentment would linger at the crime scene and on the murder weapons.

The deceased’s soul would cling to these objects.

To get rid of it completely, she had to take the murder weapons tainted with the victim's flesh and blood to a place furthest from her homeland.

Preferably deep into the ocean.

That way, the soul would be isolated by the earth’s energy and water veins, becoming a lonely ghost, never able to find the path home.

Those two stones—the ones used to smash Snow to death and later tied to her to sink the body—became, in Fiona’s eyes, the most critical "soul-suppressing objects."

She risked everything to take them with her.

Because she was afraid.

She feared that the sister she had killed with her own hands would crawl up from the bottom of the water to claim her life.

The truth was laid bare.

Absurd, laughable, and pathetic.

A woman with a higher education, believing neither in the law nor in kinship, yet superstitious about such ethereal nonsense.

For the sake of "insuring no future trouble," she had laid out this trap she thought was flawless.

Only to encounter me at customs.

To encounter my hands, which could touch the traces of resentment.

The case was settled.

Fiona and Sean would face the full severity of the law.

Captain Stone and I walked out of the interrogation room.

The sky outside was already bright.

A ray of sunlight shone in from the window at the end of the hall.

It dispersed some of the gloom.

"Julian," Stone patted my shoulder.

"This time, it’s all thanks to you."

I smiled without saying anything.

I lifted my right hand.

This hand had just touched the darkest secrets of a murderer.

Now, a faint, lingering chill remained on it.

I knew.

This chill wouldn't dissipate for a long time.

It would be like a brand.

Constantly reminding me.

That what I touch is the deepest evil in human nature.

Chapter 10

The case was over.

Fiona and Sean were handed over to the judicial system.

The ultimate trial of the law awaited them.

The news reported it for a few days.

"Customs Officer’s Keen Eyes Break Open Shocking Case."

My name wasn't mentioned.

Replaced simply by "Customs Staff Member Zhou."

This was Captain Stone’s way of protecting me.

I received a third-class merit.

And a substantial bonus.

The team held a celebration feast; it was very lively.

But I didn't drink a single drop of alcohol.

They were all celebrating the birth of a hero.

Only I knew the truth: I was no hero.

I was just a person who could touch death.

The chill hadn't vanished with the conclusion of the case.

It was like an invisible ice thorn, lodged in the index finger of my right hand.

Every so often, a wisp of coolness would emerge.

Crawling up along the seams of my bones.

I began to wash my hands frequently.

Using boiling hot water.

Scrubbing my skin until it was red and burning.

It seemed this was the only way to drive away that eerie cold.

But I knew it was useless.

It wasn't on the skin.

It was in my memory, in my soul.

I took a few days off.

Staying home alone.

Drawing the curtains, avoiding the sunlight.

I recalled that scene over and over again.

The reservoir, the pump station, the willow tree.

And Snow’s bloated, pale face.

Those eyes that died with regrets.

I began to suffer from insomnia.

Every time I closed my eyes, it was that icy water.

I was arranged to undergo psychological counseling.

This was a standard procedure after major cases.

The psychologist was a very gentle middle-aged woman.

She asked me many questions.

About the crime scene.

About my feelings.

I answered flawlessly.

I said I was traumatized, had seen gruesome sights, and was suffering from a stress reaction.

I gave all the responses a normal person should give.

But I didn't mention the stone.

I didn't mention the chill.

I didn't mention the fleeting hallucination.

How could I tell her?

Tell her I could touch the resentment of the dead?

Tell her I could see how they looked before they died?

Would they treat me as a hero, or as a monster?

The doctor's final diagnosis was Acute Stress Disorder.

She advised me to rest, relax, and socialize more with friends and family.

Holding the report, I walked out of the hospital.

The sun shone on my body, warm and cozy.

But my right index finger remained ice-cold.

The vacation ended, and I returned to my post.

The conveyor belt hummed as usual.

Suitcases continued to pass by one after another.

Everything seemed unchanged.

But also, as if everything had changed.

I began subconsciously avoiding using my right hand to touch luggage.

I put on gloves.

A colleague asked what was wrong.

I said I had some skin allergies.

Captain Stone saw it during his rounds.

He said nothing, just walked over and patted my shoulder heavily.

His palm was warm and thick.

Through the thin uniform, I could feel that strength.

He understood everything.

I looked at the coming and going passengers.

Watching the different expressions on their faces.

Joy, exhaustion, anticipation, numbness.

I suddenly had a feeling.

Inside every one of their suitcases was a story.

A story I had never cared about before, nor could I touch.

But now.

It seemed I had the key to open those stories.

And this key.

Leads, perhaps, to heaven.

Or perhaps, to a deeper hell.

My gaze fell on my own right hand.

It lay there quietly.

Like a sleeping beast.

Chapter 11

Life returned to calm.

The conveyor belt rotated day after day.

My life was just like this conveyor belt.

Monotonous, repetitive, with no end in sight.

The chill that had perched on my fingertips gradually faded.

It was no longer so bone-piercing.

But it didn't vanish.

Like a ghost, it reminded me of its existence at every moment.

I continued to work wearing gloves.

This had become a habit of mine.

Captain Stone had changed my post.

From baggage inspection, I was moved to the X-ray monitoring station.

He said I needed rest, and that this position was less taxing.

I understood; he didn't want me coming into contact with those things anymore.

He was protecting me.

My daily work consisted of sitting in front of a screen.

Watching the internal structures of one suitcase after another.

Clothes, books, electronic products.

Occasionally, there were a few suspicious shadows that required physical inspection.

Most of the time, they were false alarms.

This kind of work is draining.

It requires extreme patience and focus.

But I liked it very much.

Because I didn't need to talk to people.

Nor did I need to use my hands to touch those unknown pasts.

Time passed like this for two months.

I had almost forgotten about the Snow case.

I had also almost forgotten about the "special ability" of that hand of mine.

I thought everything would just continue this way.

Until that day.

That afternoon, there were very few people.

I was staring at the screen, feeling a bit drowsy.

A suitcase entered my field of vision.

It was a very old leather case.

On the screen, there was only a small, square object inside.

It had high density.

It looked like an urn for ashes.

Bringing an urn for ashes through customs is permitted, but procedures must be followed.

I pressed the pause button.

I notified my colleague at the inspection station to verify it.

A while later.

My colleague called me over the radio.

"Julian, come over for a second."

My heart skipped a beat.

I walked over.

Standing beside the inspection table was a white-haired old man.

He was wearing a faded Zhongshan suit.

His back was straight, but his eyes were filled with exhaustion.

The suitcase had already been opened.

Inside was indeed a black wooden box.

It had no carvings and was very simple.

My colleague looked troubled.

"This old gentleman says these are his wife's ashes. He wants to take her home."

"But his death certificate and cremation certificate are both handwritten and lack an official seal."

"According to regulations, I cannot let this pass."

The old man was very anxious.

"Officer, my wife passed away in a small village abroad. They don't have those kinds of things there; this is a certificate issued by the village head."

"We've been away from home for decades, and her only dying wish was to be buried under that tree in our hometown."