For the first time, I felt a flicker of something close to acknowledgment. I met the older officer’s eyes, impressed by his intuition.
He was right. The motive wasn’t simple.
It had taken me 25 long years to uncover the truth—a truth so dark it had consumed me entirely.
When the officer finally agreed to my request, I let out a sigh of relief. The tension in my body eased just enough for the overwhelming exhaustion to take over. I collapsed to the ground, consciousness slipping away like water through my fingers.
In my dream, I was transported back to my childhood.
I stood in a tiny walker, clutching a Transformer in my small hands.
My parents trailed behind me, their faces lit with warm smiles.
For a fleeting moment, our family seemed perfect—like the happy ending of a story.
But the dream shifted. The warmth faded, replaced by my mother’s cold, indifferent voice:
"If you’re sick, you’re sick. Who doesn’t get sick? Stop making a fuss. No need to check. Trust me—I’ll find a doctor to see you at home."
My reply was cautious, almost pleading:
"Mom, I’m really in pain..."
"Mom, why have you changed so much since getting married?"
...
Suddenly, ice-cold water splashed onto my face, jolting me awake.