Chapter 2

The shadowless lamp in the autopsy room glared with a harsh, pale light.

The preliminary autopsy was over. Ethan pulled off his blood-stained gloves and tossed them into the waste bin. His brow was creased with an irritation that wouldn't go away.

"The deceased has multiple comminuted fractures throughout the body, ruptured organs, consistent with being run over by a heavy vehicle." Franklin was taking notes nearby, his voice trembling. "The face is too badly damaged, fingerprints are completely worn off—there's no way to identify who this is."

Ethan glanced at the mangled corpse, his voice cold and professional: "Extract samples immediately for DNA comparison, and notify missing persons for screening."

After speaking, he looked down at his watch, as if calculating the time.

I floated in midair, watching this forensic examiner who was usually so decisive, now feeling restless about how to finish work quickly so he could go be with another woman.

"Yes, Mr. Jones. I'll organize these clothes and personal belongings first..."

Just as Ethan was about to turn and wash his hands, Franklin, who was cleaning the corpse's hands, suddenly stopped.

"Mr. Jones, wait."

With tweezers, Franklin carefully removed a ring from the ring finger bone of my left hand—a circular band covered in clotted blood and mud.

After a simple wipe, its original material was revealed—a plain silver ring with a simple design and somewhat rough craftsmanship.

"It was stuck between the finger bones, severely deformed. I almost missed it." Franklin placed the ring in an evidence bag and handed it to Ethan.

Ethan stopped in his tracks, his gaze falling on the plain silver ring in the evidence bag.

In that instant, his eyes froze.

I watched him nervously, watched his fingers gently trace the deformed ring through the bag.

On our third wedding anniversary, I'd secretly gone to a silver jewelry shop and spent an entire afternoon hammering out a pair of rings.

I'd given them to him with such joy, but he'd only glanced at them, disgusted by their cheap style and rough craftsmanship. He never wore that pair of rings even once, just tossed them into the back of a drawer.

"Sophia, you're always making these tacky things," his scolding voice seemed to still echo in my ears. "Emily would never be this cheap."

Ethan looked at the ring belonging to the "deceased" before him, his brow furrowing slightly.

The style was similar—cheap and rough.

But he didn't recognize this as the one I'd given him. After all, he'd never really looked at it.

He simply handed the evidence bag back, his tone flat: "Keep it safe. The deceased wore it on their ring finger, must have treasured it."

Watching this scene, my soul felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, the pain suffocating.

How ironic.

When I was alive, the ring I'd made with my own hands was treated like trash. Now that I was dead, this ring had become evidence he called "treasured."

This vaguely familiar ring stirred an inexplicable irritation in Ethan's chest, like something was stuck there.

Unconsciously, he pulled out his phone and, as if possessed, opened the pinned conversation—my WhatsApp.

On the screen was still my one-sided "monologue."

"Ethan, it's getting cold. Remember to dress warmly."

"The stomach medicine is on the nightstand. Remember to take it if you're not feeling well."

"I made your favorite steak. Come home early."

Dense lines of text, all my caring messages. His replies were only brief "okay"s, "busy"s, or long silences.

Ethan's finger scrolled, his gaze stopping on the timestamp of the last message.

Yesterday afternoon.

For twenty-four hours since then, I hadn't sent another word, hadn't replied to his earlier accusations.

Ethan stared at the blank input box. The slight unease triggered by the ring instantly transformed into his usual impatience.

He snorted coldly and locked the screen.

"Still sulking." He muttered to himself, his tone certain. "Not replying to messages, huh? Fine, let's see how long you can keep this up."

In his view, my silence was just another ploy for attention, like every time I'd gone quiet after our arguments before.

Ethan didn't spare the ring another glance and turned toward the door.

Just then, his phone vibrated several times.

He pulled out his phone. Several messages popped up on the screen, and his expression instantly changed from cold indifference to anxiety.

"I'm leaving the rest to you. Emily's chronic stomach problem is acting up; she's in terrible pain at the hospital and can't be left alone. I need to get there right away."

As he spoke, he strode quickly toward the exit.

"But Mr. Jones..." Franklin seemed to want to say something.

As the heavy iron door closed, Ethan's figure had already disappeared through the doorway.