Chapter 25: A Kite with a Broken String

At seven o’clock in the morning, the ancient book restoration room was still shrouded in a misty haze. The cuffs of Su Wan’s indigo smock were stained with glue from the night before, and now swayed gently as she lifted her arm.

She stared intently at the fragment of the “Yongan Orphanage Annual Report” under the microscope. The nano-spray bottle gripped by her metal tweezers trembled slightly at her fingertips—this was the first time in her seven years of restoring ancient texts that her hand shook to the point she could barely hold her tools.

A soft “ding” sounded, and the paper fibers under the high-powered lens came into sudden, sharp focus.

Within the binding holes of the torn page, a few delicate traces of carbon ink seeped from the paper’s core, like an old letter blurred by rain.

Su Wan’s breath caught in her throat. She remembered what Song Zhao had said last night—“Some truths need to be awakened.” She thought of the faded scar on her arm, of the searing pain in her dream when the tweezers pressed into her skin.

The nano-spray misted evenly over the page, and in the pale blue haze, a line of ant-sized writing emerged from between the fibers.

Su Wan’s nails dug into her palm as she heard an almost inaudible gasp escape her throat—“Test Subject 07: Memory erasure successful. Recommend long-term monitoring of social adaptation.” The date was October 3, 2001, and the ink’s edge was blurred by water stains, as if cold sweat had dripped from the writer’s hand while penning those words.

With a sudden click, the microscope’s lamp went dark.

Su Wan jerked upright, cold sweat tracing down her spine.

She groped for her phone, the blue glow of the screen turning her eyes red. Her fingers tapped frantically at her contacts before finally landing on Dong Lan’s chat window.

The moment the photo was sent, she stared at the scar on her left forearm and finally whispered, “They brainwashed me.”

At ten in the morning, the air conditioner in the Provincial Forensics Department hummed.

Dong Lan’s lab coat pocket held half a cold sandwich. Her mouse traced an urgent path across the digital files.

A scan of Lin Haoyu’s psychiatric license from 1999 was magnified on the screen, but his practice record ended abruptly on December 31, 2002. The reason for cancellation was listed as “personal request,” yet the signature’s ink was three times darker than in other years.

“... ...” She frowned at the pharmaceutical purchase lists from three hospitals, the calculator keys crackling under her fingers.

From 2000 to 2001, the purchase volume had quintupled compared to the previous three years. In the remarks column for “pain management,” several penciled notes reading “children post-op” had been crossed out and rewritten as “adult analgesia.”

Dong Lan yanked off her lab coat and slung it over the chair. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, compiling data, and finally she titled her email: “Suspected illegal drug trials, require special audit—To: Lu Yuan.”

At three in the afternoon, the psychological intervention room felt like a sealed glass coffin.

Song Zhao stared at Chen Mo through the one-way mirror. Chen Mo’s temples had been shaved clean, exposing bluish stubble, yet he seemed more human than when he’d been brought in three months before.

Chen Mo looked up and managed a bitter smile. “Do you know why I never dared to investigate Old Song’s case?”

Song Zhao pressed his knuckles against the cold observation window, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because in the end, you would get burned.”

“In 2003, while organizing old files, I came across an internal memo.” Chen Mo’s voice scraped like sandpaper over metal. “‘Regarding the handling of Comrade Song Jianguo’s unnatural death.’ The issuing authority was the City Bureau’s Political Department, and the approval was stamped with Zhou Mingyuan’s personal seal.

They killed using organizational procedures. Even the autopsy report was classified as ‘confidential.’”

Song Zhao’s fist clenched until sweat slicked between his fingers. “What about the original files?”

“Burned.” Chen Mo looked down at the red marks on his wrists left by handcuffs. “But I remember there was a backup—bottom shelf of the dehumidifying cabinet, Evidence Center, Section B, B-7-09.” He suddenly looked up, eyes glimmering. “Three days before Old Song’s accident, he sent me a text: ‘Some children shouldn’t be treated as data.’

I thought he’d lost himself in the resettlement case…”

By six in the evening, the old section of the evidence center was thick with the smell of mold.

Song Zhao kept close to the wall, the flashlight at his feet reflected in the puddles like scattered stars.

The surveillance camera in Section B hung askew in the corner, its wires drooping. He pulled from his pocket the ancient book restoration knife he’d borrowed from Su Wan, and slid its tip into the lock of cabinet B-7-09.

With a snap, the rusty lock split, and Song Zhao’s heart pounded against his ribs.

The wax seal on the metal box still held the warmth of twenty years past. As he tore open the kraft paper bag, a handwritten investigation note slipped out. The last page, though water-stained, was still legible: “Lin Haoyu claims charity, but conducts human experiments.

Test Subject 07 has escaped, must be recaptured at once—if her memory returns, all is lost.”

Only the desk lamp was lit in the rented room deep into the night.

Song Zhao slid a micro-cassette into an old recorder. As the tape head whirred and hissed, a young man’s voice suddenly sounded, rough and smoky—a voice he knew all too well: “…I have already filmed Lin Haoyu injecting the children. The footage is hidden in a copper box in the wall at 72 Yong’an Lane.

If anything happens to me, give it to someone trustworthy.

Remember, Number 07 is not data—she’s a child. Her name is…”

The sound of a struggle exploded, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground.

Song Zhao slammed the pause button. The recorder’s red light cast a blood-like glow over his face.

He looked at the copper tag on the table. Dust from the wall still clung to the engraved numbers 0723—“07” for the test subject, but could “23” be the date Su Wan was abducted?

Rain began to fall again outside the window.

Song Zhao pulled out his phone; on the screen was the photo Su Wan had sent before dawn, her message—“They brainwashed me”—still in the chat window.

He packed the cassette and the photocopied notes into a waterproof file bag. The sound of raindrops on the glass was identical to that night, twenty years ago.

“Dad,” he said softly to the old photograph of his father in uniform, hanging on the wall, “the spark you protected with your life—I’ll take it to the provincial bureau tomorrow.”