Life doesn't matter, but the diary has to be kept on.

I went into that room again, while Annan was on his way to another place. She has been in a good mood lately, and I have cooperated with her on the surface, but the doubts in my heart are not solved for a day, and I can't laugh happily for a day.

The house was so quiet that I hid it from my mother. There was no one at home at that time, and when I took out the key and opened the door, a layer of transparent wings soaked in ash rushed towards me, as if I had entered a ruined building.

Everything in the living room was covered with a layer of dust, not thick, but I noticed it because of the graininess that I could reach, and the dark colors that would not dissipate even if the curtains were opened, including the colorful model house on the coffee table, which had been pieced together in its original form.

I didn't look closely, but the situation remained largely unchanged. My journey to the subject was a bit lengthy, perhaps for fear of getting caught or not being able to digest the findings. I lay on the couch for two full hours, but nothing changed around me except for the dust.

The urge to urinate made me get up. When I washed my hands, I looked in the mirror, and I was expressionless and couldn't see joy or sorrow. The cool excitement of the flowing water made me sober for a moment, and I remembered the purpose of my trip.

I put my hand in the towel hanging next to me and let it suck. Exit the bathroom and turn right, past the stairwell, and I arrived at the door of the secret room. The shiny handle shows that it is the only pure land in this house. I put my hand on it, hold it, force it, spin it...... There are clear intervals between the movements, which gives the action of entering the door a sense of ritual. Unscrewed easily, it seems that the mother did not think of treating it as a secret room again. When her father died, she could make some memories in it.

The room was indeed spotless, because the dust was scary and sticky. The original kneeling cushion has been directly turned into a reclining sofa, and it can be imagined how willing the mother is to take up the time of cleaning other rooms for the sake of nostalgia.

I lay on the couch, still stained with the smell of tobacco that I couldn't dissipate. I think back to the first time I stumbled, and I regret that the mystery inside was worn away in just a few times. I pulled a cigarette out of my jacket pocket and set it on fire. I'm not a good smoker, but if I'm not proficient, the effect becomes more and more obvious, and my mind drifts away with the smoke. The burning embers fell to my arm, and there was no temperature, so I threw it to the ground.

The sofa took my whole heart into my pocket, and I thought of my mother. She would fold her legs, sit on one side with her knees bent, one hand on her forehead, and meditate. She may not open her eyes, but the photos on the altar have long been unforgettable. She would stay all day, and she wouldn't sleep or take the tea.

I got up and spied through the room where there was no Ryoko, looking for clues in the clear.

He heard this mention of a slight agency, lifted his eyelids slightly, and stopped tapping his fingers on the table.

"I've waited for the crux of the matter?"

"The key?"

"Decide if you're making a presumptuous."

I'm certainly not talking about it, and I'm not speculating with the greatest malice about some inconsequentialities. I've never cared about the so-called critical. Educators often talk about "learning everywhere with attention", in other words, paying attention is the key. What's more, I am not a narrow-minded person, and I will not always take out the "key" and look left and right. I've just seen that it's one thing to be at ease, and it's another thing to take it as a rhetoric.

Annan often said that I like to chew on words, and simple questions can also be linked to the metaphysical, and the person who talks to him can be taken to the ditch. I suddenly thought of her frowning and laughed. But people don't deserve to laugh on this occasion.

He looked a little annoyed.

"Facing me, can you think of her?" He turned the anger that had just risen into ridicule.

Sure enough, he knew it all.

From the time I came in until now, he had been silent and listened to me. My brotherhood with him has been shallow since I was a child, and one of the best things he has done to me is to breathe and command, and his attitude towards me can be called disdainful. I'm a little unaccustomed to him like this.

"Go ahead and tell me what exactly you've found?"

It's clean, and to say it's handled means it's the site of a major accident before, and I can smell blood. No traces of blood were found, but the smell was still there. Sure enough, the smoke was still useful, and my mind was noticeably clearer than before, and of course it was probably because there was no one else inside, so it didn't prevent me from smelling blood. When they were in a hurry to collect their father's body, they forgot to open the door to breathe. I speculated on the trajectory of their movements, the secret room was the first crime scene, then dragged all the way to the bathroom to wash and wipe the body dry, and finally put him on the bed completely. I follow the trajectory and always find a little clue.

I went back to the secret room, and I always felt that I hadn't looked carefully.