Namgong, drenched in sweat, rushed to the outside of the morgue, only to find the heavy door locked. An old man was seated in the control room right beside it.

“Sir, why is this door locked?” Namgong, unable to push the door open, went into the control room to inquire.

“Are you family?” The old man glanced up over the rim of his reading glasses at Namgong while still looking at his newspaper.

“Family? Oh, the body has already been moved to the chapel. I just wanted to check if anything was left behind; the family mentioned something seemed to be missing from the deceased.” Seeing the old man look like he intended to make things difficult, Namgong quickly fabricated a lie, hoping for some leniency.

The old man, however, was not swayed. He cast a disdainful glance at Namgong. “They always say that. They secretly take the deceased’s gold and jewelry at home but refuse to admit it, blaming the funeral home for everything. We see plenty of those people. Haven’t you seen the notice on the door? Please, family, secure valuables on the deceased; we are not responsible for any loss.” With that, the old man returned his gaze to the newspaper, focusing intently on reading.

“Then… may I go in for a look? I went in once this morning.” Mr. Namgong became troubled; the gatekeeper’s attitude threatened to derail his plan.

The old man impatiently rolled up his newspaper and used the paper tube to point to another sign on the door, telling Namgong to look for himself.

Namgong turned his head to look and saw it clearly stated: “No Entry for Unauthorized Personnel.” However, when he came this morning, there was clearly no guard, and he could plainly push the door open. (Readers might ask here: Didn’t Mrs. Namgong also question how Mr. Namgong got into the morgue so easily? That’s right. When his wife asked him that question, Mr. Namgong put on a terribly displeased front. Now you know why he was unhappy, don't you? Men are all concerned with saving face; some things are better understood than spoken.)

Fine, since that was the case, he would have to make do by inquiring. Mr. Namgong walked up to the old man, extended the palm holding the room number slip, and said to the old man, “Sir, I just want to verify if Room 21 exists in this morgue.”

The old man pushed up the frames of his glasses with a finger, took Namgong’s hand, and held it up to the light for a close look. Suddenly, he shoved the hand away and said angrily, “Nonsense! Is someone playing a joke on you? I only have 16 rooms here; there is no Room 21.”

“Are there morgues anywhere else?” Hearing this, Namgong was overjoyed. Pressing his advantage, he added another question, afraid of missing anything.

“Other places? There must be plenty. At least this funeral home only has this one morgue; I don’t know about other funeral homes. You can try calling and asking.” After speaking, the old man spread his newspaper out again and peered at it seriously through his reading glasses, ignoring him completely.

The recollection ended there. Mr. Namgong, having rushed around all morning and confirming that the memory he had tried to erase definitely existed, anxiously hurried home to prepare for the move.

But at this very moment, the driver sitting in the driver’s seat turned his head, asking Namgong to look closely at his face. Namgong was astonished to find that the person driving for him was none other than the funeral home worker who had entered Room 21 yesterday morning, taken a dagger, and stabbed Mrs. Li to death. That ring belonging to Old Li, that erased memory—they were all inextricably linked to this man.

Namgong shivered involuntarily as he watched the driver give him a cold smile. He thought, This is it... I’m finished.