Zhou Huan stepped into the room, meticulously examining the objects arranged in the corner. On an old, European-style desk lay a pile of yellowed potions, a larger container, several camera stands, and a very early model camera. Suspended above the desk, strung along a thin length of velvet cord, were several photographs hanging to dry. The windows around the room were draped with blackout curtains. Near the window stood a modest bookcase, its shelves cluttered with a haphazard assortment of books, most of which were overshadowed by the dusty memories captured in the photographs displayed within.

"Master Zhou, these are the things the reporter left behind. Take a look at these photos. We investigated and confirmed these were all taken by him at the time. They haven't been touched recently. When we first started looking into this place, it seemed quite clean inside, suggesting someone cleans up here regularly," Detective Billy explained the situation of the room to Zhou Huan.

Zhou Huan sifted through the photographs in the bookcase, holding each one in his hands to study it. The images documented scenes from the War of Resistance against Japan in Manchuria. Some depicted children being tossed high into the air by Japanese soldiers; others captured the chilling moment a bayonet was plunged through a Chinese person; and yet others showed the Japanese devils flaunting their 'trophies.' From these photographs, the photographer's technique was crystal clear—a distinct ability and innate sense for capturing the decisive moment.

Huh? Among the stack, Zhou Huan pulled out a photograph that seemed strangely familiar. The man in it bore a striking resemblance to Old Cripple Huang, and standing beside him was a young man whose features also mirrored Huang’s slightly. They looked like sworn brothers. What could this possibly mean?

Zhou Huan peered closely at the details on the photograph under the light of the oil lamp. The background was a mountain, one Zhou Huan knew intimately—the very mountain that had housed the Japanese arsenal back then, and later, the mountain where they had attempted to rob the tomb. The mountain appeared quite serene in the photo. Old Cripple Huang held a stick in his hand, and the man beside him held one too. Their clothes looked identical, suggesting they were quite affluent at the time.

"Two young masters from wealthy families in Manchuria!" Zhou Huan murmured, instinctively translating and reading the caption beneath the photo aloud. He had learned a great deal at the Fushou Hall, not just mastering the craft of the Shoushi (embalming/longevity arts), but also acquiring various applied skills, including English and computing.

"Master Zhou, this photo?" Billy approached, noticing Zhou Huan scrutinizing this particular picture for so long.

Zhou Huan replied carefully, "The people in here seem to be brothers. What is their relationship?"

"That’s easily explained, Master Zhou, look here!" As Billy spoke, he pulled a diary from his pocket. He continued, "This diary was left by the photographer. I’ve skimmed through it; it records his experiences taking pictures on Chinese soil with his partner. This should be quite useful to you. If you want to find him, understanding what’s written here is essential."

Zhou Huan took the diary, checked the date on the photograph, and then flipped through the journal until he found the corresponding entry. It read: Today is Saturday. On American soil, we should be resting. However, something truly rare happened today on Chinese land. The sun experienced an eclipse, and the moon turned red that night. The local natives said such a moon was an ill omen. During the day, in Andong, I photographed a very wealthy Chinese family, a pair of Chinese brothers, and received two silver dollars. This wasn't a small sum, which I promptly gave to the local poor.

Judging by the text, the journalist seemed like a good man. His purpose in China was likely just to take photographs—the duty of a reporter.

Zhou Huan flipped further back in the stack of photos. There were more pictures of the two boys causing mischief. Most striking, however, was a photo where the child next to Old Cripple Huang was perched on Huang's head, throwing a punch. Visible in that frame was an older woman dressed in the manner of a married elder, presumably the boys' matriarch.

Behind this photograph was a string of cursive words that Zhou Huan found difficult to decipher. He asked Billy, "What do these characters say?"

"It says, 'The mother of the two boys,'" Billy replied. At this, Zhou Huan’s eyes suddenly lit up. He had a sudden feeling—the child seemed to be tormenting Cripple Huang, whose face in the photo showed clear distress. A closer look revealed that one of Huang’s hands was supporting his own leg.

Zhou Huan nodded slowly. "Now I understand. The skeletons we found at the gravesite must have been killed by Cripple Huang. One of them was this man, and the other was very likely that old woman. These two people might be the memories he could never forget in his entire life." Zhou Huan also realized another issue: the relationship between Cripple Huang and Translator Long was not as straightforward as it seemed. It appeared Translator Long had concealed certain truths, secrets that formed the bond compelling them to be together in the afterlife. Zhou Huan speculated that if his guess was correct, their conflict revolved around a discrepancy in the amount of property Translator Long had obtained from Cripple Huang’s estate.

"Master Zhou, this diary runs right up to June 11th, ten years ago. That means by that day, this person either moved away or was completely gone, because when I retrieved this diary, it was sealed tightly inside a box," Billy explained.

Zhou Huan turned back. "That implies the photographer’s last day of writing was that day. You can see this diary records nearly thirty years of his life, every single day. Such a thick volume, and he fastened it shut with a hand stitch—that signals an ending."

"I feel the same, but what he did after that, we genuinely can’t trace. It’s been ten years. Once a person dies, their records are archived and sealed. The only current way is to check the archives for his file. But here’s the strange part: when we went to the archives before to look up this man, we found no record of him—not even a death certificate. They have no record of his passing on that day," Billy relayed all the dead ends in his investigation, implicitly placing the burden of the next steps back onto Zhou Huan.

Zhou Huan let out a long breath. "Can you check the death records for the fifteen days preceding and the fifteen days following the date written on that old photo? Los Angeles probably only had one hospital authorized to issue death certificates back then."

Billy couldn't help but marvel. That Zhou Huan knew something like this astonished him, earning Billy’s utmost respect.

Dongzi rushed up the stairs in a flurry. "Master, something’s wrong! I saw someone approaching outside the farm. I don't know who it is, so I killed the downstairs lights early. Let's turn off our lights now."

"Lights out! Hide quickly. Don’t panic over any sudden incident; just follow my lead," Zhou Huan commanded calmly.

The people in the room extinguished their lights and found places to conceal themselves.

Dongzi crept over to Zhou Huan in the dark. "Brother, do we need to go to such lengths? It looks like just one person, one beam of light. Is hiding necessary?"

"Less chatter. You don’t know why they’re here. We’ll stay hidden and see what they intend to do. Hurry and pack the diary and the photos!" As Zhou Huan spoke, he shoved the diary, photos, and other items into Dongzi’s tool bag.

Dongzi was dawdling in retrieving the items when the beam of light downstairs entered the room. The door creaked open. Light, delicate footsteps moved around downstairs for a moment before an oil lamp was suddenly lit. Instantly, the entire building fell into a profound, eerie silence. Those upstairs dared barely to breathe, their eyes locked tightly in the darkness, each person intently staring at the doorway, tense and gasping for air in painful succession.