Twelve hours after Guo Kai’s death, his phone finally ran out of battery and shut off. All incoming calls were then automatically forwarded to another number. When his father dialed the phone again, the ringtone came from his son’s bedroom. It was the backup phone kept in the first drawer of the desk, containing several text messages sent by Gabriel Adams himself. He had sent his investigation itinerary to this phone, just in case. The last message was an address. Over an hour later, the police and Mr. Adams entered the house at that address and found Gabriel Adams dead in the bathtub, shirtless. There was a half-stitched knife wound on his left waist, and the blood that had flowed out was already clotted. His left kidney had been removed, and during the extraction, the aorta was severed—this was the cause of death.

According to the subsequent police investigation, Gabriel Adams had left the bar that night with a long-haired woman. No one saw her face clearly, and the surveillance footage was blurry. The police concluded that this was an extremely rare kidney thief, who seduced men and brought them back to a rented apartment, then used a powerful inhaled anesthetic to knock them out and remove their kidneys. The original intent was not to kill, but this time, something went wrong during the surgery: the aorta near the left kidney was cut. The perpetrator stitched up the wound halfway, saw that the bleeding wouldn’t stop and realized there was no hope, so they abandoned Gabriel Adams and fled. Although terrifying stories about kidney theft often circulate online, most are fabricated, since unmatched kidneys cannot be used for transplants. But this time, a few cult pamphlets were found in the apartment, some of which described the consumption of live kidneys. To this day, the police have made no progress; the perpetrator left no trace.

Fiona Bennett knew the police would never solve the case, because they were looking in the wrong direction.

On the dark green tombstone, Gabriel Adams’s name was painted in gold.

The person buried to his left was seventy-five, to his right eighty-three. He was thirty.

The same age as me, Fiona Bennett thought.

She couldn’t stand in front of the tombstone, only squat down slowly, supporting herself on it. In front of Gabriel Adams’s grave, she curled up into the smallest ball possible, trembling, her face already smeared with tears and snot. A wailing sound rose from deep in her throat, but she couldn’t even say a single “I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t say it. An apology here was so light it would be blown away by the wind.

Every week, she and Gabriel Adams would have afternoon tea, strolling together along old streets, a life of poetry and romance, playing the part of a carefree bystander. But only now, touching the cold tombstone, did she realize just how dangerous the task she had given Gabriel Adams was. It should have been her own burden. Gabriel Adams wanted to shield her from the storm—she knew it, but pretended not to. How selfish people are. She’d heard that Gabriel Adams died with his eyes open. She wanted to know what he was thinking in his final moments, but didn’t dare imagine it.

The sun set, night crept in, and her phone rang several times.

Fiona Bennett stood up in the shadows and walked away.

She knew that in this world, there would never be another person who would stand in front of her like Gabriel Adams did.

She knew Gabriel Adams would say, of course there is—your father, your mother, they will.

But now, let me do it myself, Gabriel Adams.

Or, like you, I’ll be buried by those two people.

Or—

If that day ever comes,

If I succeed,

I’ll come to your grave

and leave a red rose, all right?

Part Two

I. Hope

July 21, 1987.

Scorching heat.

At this time, Susan Wright was still alive, ten years old. Her older sister Shirley Wright was also alive, eleven.

What she would face ten years later was, for the present Susan Wright, unknown—a future full of unpredictable changes, where anything was still possible. It was a channel shrouded in mist, pure white fog filling the world, but there would always be a path belonging to her, leading to her future. No matter how winding that path might look in retrospect, here and now, it was straight—forward, forward. As soon as fate’s whistle sounded, the fog would clear; she could already foresee it, it was inevitable. July 21, 1987, just past 1 p.m.

In all her life, Susan Wright had never felt so full of dreams and hope for the future as she did now.

The radio was playing Wang Jieshi and Xie Lisi’s duet “Grandma’s Lake Bay.” Because there was always a hissing noise, the radio was placed on top of the five-drawer dresser, not too close or too far from her mother Beatrice Collins’s bed—just right for listening.

The dresser was covered with colorful paper, much of it torn from “Popular Cinema” magazine—thick and pretty, hiding the dresser’s shabbiness.

The walls were also papered with newspapers, covering the spots where the plaster had fallen off. Every so often, Adrian Wright would bring home a stack of newspapers from the recycling station to re-paper the walls, trying to make the room look newer. The sisters could also learn to read from them—killing two birds with one stone.

The ceiling fan turned slowly, stirring a faint breeze in the sticky air, brushing over Beatrice Collins’s body. Beatrice Collins’s bed was in the best spot in the room, by the south window, well-ventilated. Before the neighbor added a second floor, the winter sun would even shine in for an hour. Susan Wright had moved a small stool to sit by her mother’s bed, so she could also feel the fan’s breeze. Her own bed was the top bunk in the opposite corner, the middle bunk was her sister’s, the bottom her father’s. For the old street, their room was considered large—two beds, two cabinets, a camphor chest used as a coffee table, and still enough space to move around.

Susan Wright had sat on the little stool in front of the fan for a long time. Now she stood by the bed, half a step from the edge, watching her mother.

Beatrice Collins’s eyes were half-open, half-closed; it was impossible to tell if she saw her younger daughter. Susan Wright felt her mother was looking at her—her mother always kept her eyes half-open, so no matter where she stood, she felt watched. Like the great Buddha statue in the temple. Why hasn’t my sister come yet? Susan Wright wondered.

We agreed to do it together—to kill Mom. If you don’t come, I don’t dare do it alone.

“Why Are the Flowers So Red”—the radio played two songs in a row by Wang Jieshi and Xie Lisi.

Why are the flowers so bright,

So bright that people can’t bear to leave,

They are watered with the blood of youth.

Susan Wright sang along in her heart. She looked at her mother, and her mother seemed to look back at her.

Sister ran away; she didn’t dare come. Susan Wright thought.

Coward!

So what about me?

She stood there like a nail. Gradually, she couldn’t hear the music anymore, her face started to flush, her heart thudded in her chest, her blood boiled, sweat soaked her hair and ran down her forehead, stinging her eyes.

Sorry, Mom.

But this is the only way.

“Mom,” she said.

She couldn’t hear her own voice at all; the two syllables just bubbled up in her throat, never making it out.

“Mom,” she called again, this time hearing it—a buzzing like a mosquito.

“Mom.” She strained so hard the veins stood out on her neck, and the word shot out like a cannonball, thundering through the room. That thunder loosened her whole body, as if someone waking from a nightmare, finally able to move.

Susan Wright’s small hand gripped the hem of her undershirt, pulling it up to cover her whole face. Sweat soaked through, and the outline of her face slowly appeared on the other side of the white cotton. Her lips moved slightly—she was silently mouthing words. After a long time, Susan Wright took a deep breath, the cloth dipping in, then she slowly lowered her shirt, revealing her wet face. Like a curtain rising.

Goodbye, Mom. She mouthed the words, then realized she’d spoken them aloud. Her mother looked at her, but didn’t respond.

Susan Wright reached out and pinched the yellowed rubber tube, slowly pulling it out.

An inch. An inch. An inch. An inch.

She stepped back, then back again, her movements growing larger, both hands crossing back and forth like a fisherman hauling in a net.

The tube slid out of Beatrice Collins’s nostril, like a writhing snake.

So red,

So red like burning fire,

It symbolizes pure friendship and love.

……

……

……

Thank you for listening.

Susan Wright let go. The tube fell silently to the floor. Her mother still lay there as before, only now there was a faint, shiny wet trail from her philtrum to her collarbone—the mark left by the tube. Its dark brown end rested on the thin blanket over Beatrice Collins’s chest.

Susan Wright stared at the blanket, the slight rise and fall that meant breathing would soon be gone.

Next, we bring you foreign light music.

Hurried footsteps sounded outside. The half-closed door was suddenly flung open, slamming hard into the back of Susan Wright’s head. She fell to the floor, feeling no pain, only that the world was receding. She looked at the soft tube in front of her nose, stretching to the far end of the endless room. A pair of big feet appeared, stepping on the tube.

It’s too late, Dad, it’s too late.

It’s just the two of us now, Susan Wright thought.

II. Cocoon

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