Remembered Too Late

The air in West River City felt damp and bitterly cold. Roger stood outside the forensic identification center. Bloodshot veins filled his eyes after a sleepless night. From the moment he received the call, he had driven here like a madman. Only one thought occupied his mind. It could not be Josie. She was just throwing a tantrum and trying to get his attention this way. How could she possibly be dead? A police officer led him toward the room lit with the Autopsy Room sign. The cold metal door swung open. A mix of formaldehyde and decay hit him in the face. Roger's stomach churned violently. He saw a human outline covered by a white sheet in the center of the room. The officer stepped forward and signaled him to prepare himself mentally. "Mr. Roger, the body has been in the water for a long time. The condition... is not good." Roger felt his legs weigh a thousand pounds. Each step came with unusual difficulty. He reached out. His fingertips trembled yet hesitated to lift the sheet. He was afraid. This undefeated general who struck fear into countless opponents in court felt bone-deep terror for the first time. In the end, the forensic expert beside him lifted a corner of the sheet. A swollen, rotting face unrecognizable in features lay exposed to the air. Roger's pupils contracted sharply. His breathing stopped for an instant. Though the facial features could no longer be distinguished, the familiar long brown hair and the red cord bracelet on the wrist—bleached white by water—made his heart pound wildly. That bracelet was a gift from Josie's mother on her eighteenth birthday. She had always worn it. "It's not her..." Roger's voice sounded hoarse and dry as if convincing himself. "Her hair wasn't this long." The expert handed him an evidence bag without expression. "We found this in the deceased's clothing pocket." Inside the bag lay an ID card soaked until the text blurred. But the name "Josie Walton" and the outline of the one-inch photo remained clearly visible. Roger's entire world spun violently in that moment. He staggered back several steps and crashed into the cold wall. Impossible... This was absolutely impossible! He mobilized all his connections and demanded a thorough investigation from the West River police. He stayed in West River for three days like a caged beast—restless and irritable. Until the afternoon of the third day when the final DNA comparison results came out. No match. The deceased was not Josie. The moment Roger received the report, all his strength drained away. He collapsed into a chair. Immense joy and lingering fear left him nearly exhausted. He gasped for air in huge breaths as if expelling the suffocation of the past few days. She was not dead. She was still alive. But immediately after, a greater question surged into his mind. Where was she? Why had she faked her own death? Did she want to escape from him that desperately? Roger returned to Eldoria. The first thing he did was rush into the study and pull up all the surveillance footage around the villa. He reviewed it frame by frame. Finally, in the footage from the early morning of the day Josie "left for her trip," he spotted her figure. She wore a plain trench coat and pulled a suitcase as she got into a taxi. She never looked back. Roger immediately sent people to track the taxi's destination and investigate the source of the forged ID. He applied the same obsession and sharpness he used on cases to finding Josie Walton. Meanwhile, in a small coastal town called Seavelt thousands of miles away. I rented an attic room with a view of the ocean and gave myself a new name, Serena. I slept until I woke naturally each day, walked along the beach, or spent afternoons in the town's old bookstore. The sunshine here felt warm. The sea breeze blew gently. I sensed myself coming back to life little by little.