That stamp album was the evidence that everything had actually happened, yet the police turned a deaf ear, insisting on closing the case as an incident of self-harm. Perhaps they believed concluding a case as self-harm by a mentally ill patient was far easier to file than an inexplicable case of assault by another party.

Life in the mental hospital was comparatively easy. For patients like us who experience intermittent ‘episodes,’ the hospital primarily focused on observation and control; medication, of course, was mandatory. During dispensing time, everyone lined up in the hall, approaching the nurse one by one to receive their pills. The nurse watched you place the medication in your mouth and swallow, then instructed you to open your mouth wide, stick out your tongue, and she would shine a penlight inside to confirm there was nothing left before letting you pass. Thus, sneaking anything past them was quite difficult. Unless, of course, you swallowed the pills and then went to the toilet to retrieve them later. However, the restrooms were entirely covered by surveillance cameras; discovery meant being locked in the isolation cell. For the criminally insane, control was the paramount concern; privacy simply did not exist here.

Initially, the doctor prescribed heavy doses. I felt perpetually drowsy; the moment my back touched the mattress, I would fall asleep instantly. My days consisted only of taking medicine and sleeping, to the point where I couldn't even manage to eat. The only two things I did when waking mid-sleep were drinking water and using the restroom; after drinking and relieving myself, I’d immediately drift back to sleep. My physical strength plummeted dramatically; one time, I actually fainted in the lavatory. Following that, a team of doctors convened for a consultation, and after deliberation, they decided to reduce the dosage, slowly helping me regain my appetite. Life became much freer afterward. Each day, besides eating and participating in light exercises, I could also play chess with other patients in the main hall.

Old Shao was a normal person I discovered here; like me, he had been wrongly committed, the culprit being his wife. He and his wife had run a successful business in his younger days, and their life was thriving, complete with a plump young son. When their son turned eight, Shao met another woman. It was instant infatuation—a feeling that they had known each other forever—and soon, they became lovers. That woman was a philatelist, constantly demanding he procure rare stamps for her collection. Once, to get her a birthday gift, Old Shao spent two hundred thousand at an auction to acquire a complete set of Republic of China era stamps. When his wife found out, she hired thugs to give the woman a severe beating. After the incident, Old Shao immediately demanded a divorce. Who knew his wife had been prepared? The very next day, she contacted the psychiatric hospital and had him admitted. He has been confined here for ten years now—ten years of crying out to heaven and earth to no avail. Because, from the moment he was brought in, his wife became the sole guardian of this "mental patient"; without her signature, he could never leave.

I also shared my bizarre experiences with him, expecting him, like everyone else, to insist my stories were mere hallucinations. To my surprise, after hearing my tale, he gave a mysterious smile and asked, "Is that stamp album bound in brown leather with gold trim around the edges? Are the stamps inside very old, many already beginning to fade, but still discernible upon close inspection?"

A shock jolted through me. Had he seen that album?

"How did you know?"

"Hahaha, there are many things you don't know. Let’s make a deal: you help me get out of here, and I’ll tell you the secret of that stamp album."

Truly, a scoundrel masquerading as a merchant—trading a secret for his freedom. Did he think this place was run by King Yama?