I forced my eyes open, finding myself still confined to the hospital bed, cold steel cuffs biting into my wrists and ankles. Old Shao sat nearby, a wad of tissues in his hand, diligently wiping the sweat from my brow.

“Nightmare again?”

“Why are you here?” The moment I spoke, I realized how utterly weak I was; even breathing left me breathless.

“Don’t talk. He tampered with you in the dream. The more you sleep, the weaker you get.”

“Who is he?”

“The one using you as a sacrifice. You brought the stamp album to the Public Security Bureau; they’re figuring out how to retrieve it.”

“How do you know?”

“I know plenty. I can even tell fortunes. Your sister won't be coming for you anytime soon.”

“Why not?”

Old Shao abruptly fell silent, continuing only to wipe my sweat. As he began tending to my hands, I seized the opportunity, gripping his wrist and forcing myself up to look him directly in the eye: “Tell me!”

Old Shao sighed, patted my hand, and settled back down. “Let me tell you a story. You know how much my younger wife loves collecting stamps. Once, I saw a photo in her album—a person from the Republic of China era standing next to an empty chair, holding a book. According to folk custom, an empty space in a photograph is usually reserved for someone already deceased. So I asked my wife what relationship the departed in the picture had with the person standing there. She gave a cryptic smile and said, ‘You misunderstood. The person in the photo is already dead; the space beside them is empty because that person is still alive.’”

“I was utterly bewildered—what did ‘the person is still alive’ mean? This photo is at least a hundred or two hundred years old from now. If the person in the photo was dead when it was taken, that’s nonsense. If the person in the photo is dead now, that’s stating the obvious. But if the person next to them was alive when the picture was taken, custom strictly forbade leaving their spot empty. If you’re saying that person is alive now, that’s a true marvel.”

“My wife shook her head, saying it wasn’t as I imagined. She couldn’t explain exactly what was going on, but she said anyone possessing that old photograph must deeply, profoundly love collecting stamps—all sorts, especially old ones. At first, I thought she was joking, but slowly I realized her passion for stamps defied normal understanding. The moment she saw an old stamp, she’d stop at nothing to acquire it. If she couldn’t get it, she wouldn’t sleep for days, sometimes found sobbing quietly by the window in the dead of night, looking utterly distraught. I didn't even want to go to that auction, but after seeing her miserable for days, her eyes swollen like peaches, my heart softened, and I went. That’s how I ended up here. I don't know if she’s been doing alright all these years alone outside.” Old Shao paused here, head bowed, letting out a heavy sigh before falling silent.

From his description, the photograph sounded eerily similar to the one I had seen in the villa's entrance hall. Yet, even in this long telling, there wasn’t a single mention of the stamp album.

“What is the secret of that stamp album? Why are they coming after me?”

Old Shao looked up, his gaze pleading. “Child, you are my only hope of getting out. I’ve been here ten years; if I stay longer, my life will be meaningless. If you help me get out, I’ll tell you the secret. They will definitely come for you again; this secret concerns the lives of you and your sister.”

Never make a deal with a profiteer, that was what my mother always said as a child, because they never engage in a losing bargain.