The Ashes of Innocence

[If I say I love you, I'll love your past, your tantrums, even your flaws.]

[If I say I love you, I’ll give my heart, my lungs, my very soul to the love god in hell.]

[If I say I love you, I’ll bleed for you, leaving only my skin to wrap around your soul, escaping death itself.]

[If I say I love you,we’ll kiss like fire, bodies entwined, burning away sin and sorrow.]

[We'll meet again.]

Alan had recently started writing novels. He scribbled this short poem in his notebook —a story of medieval lovers vowing to stay together, no matter what their religious sects did.

I frowned. The poem had narrative power, but also a bloody, mysterious vibe—not his usual style.

Alan Smith was my husband.

I remember seeing him for the first time in college. He seemed steady, dependable. Girls liked men who reminded them of their fathers. Alan was an ideal husband—calm, a great cook, living simply.

A few years ago, I quit my job at the prosecutor’s office. Everyone opposed it. But Alan supported me without hesitation, saying not to worry about money. He worked at the Forestry Bureau; his salary was enough to live comfortably.

Finding something I loved to do felt like luck. And having Alan still be considerate after ten years of marriage was a blessing.

I’m Nancy Johnson. Chief editor of Silverlight City Legal Journal, a former prosecutor, licensed attorney. I work hard—maybe too hard. Three years after leaving the office, I climbed from reporter to chief editor.

Lately, I noticed Alan acting strangely. He seemed melancholic, indecisive. His eyes carried an unreadable emotion every time he looked at me.

I trusted my judgment. Not intuition alone—years of legal work taught me to read people. He was hiding something, but I trusted he’d tell me in time. That was the trust built over years of marriage.

Stretching on the sofa, I checked my phone. 10 PM. Alan hadn’t returned. He had gone to a college reunion a few days ago.

He went to a college reunion, which he had informed me about a few days ago.

Although it was a bit late, I decided not to rush him. I closed the Facebook chat page. It had been a while since they last met, and I didn't want to interrupt their conversation. Men needed to maintain their dignity when they were out. They didn't like women who constantly nagged about trivial things and followed them around complaining, and neither did I.

At this moment, a news alert popped up on my phone: [A major fire broke out in a private room at the largest entertainment venue in the city, True Love Entertainment Club, injuring several people. No deaths have been reported so far.]

When reading news about such incidents, people needed to pay attention to the wording. "No deaths have been reported so far" often meant someone was critically injured and near death. The news was phrased this way to maintain social stability, and the club owner likely pulled some strings.

Sure enough, a message from my boss popped up on Facebook: [Check your email.]

I opened my work email to find a dozen photos. Despite my years of experience in legal work, I was still shocked by what I saw.

The hotel room was completely burned, with all the furniture charred. Only the frame of a sofa remained, and on it was a charred body—or rather, a piece of charcoal.

Even more bizarre, the body's chest had been clearly cut open, with all the organs removed, leaving only some charred tissue inside.

Was this revenge? Torture? A crime of passion? Or organ trafficking? 

My mind was racing as I kept scrolling through the photos.

Then I froze.

The heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, stomach, eyes, and male genitalia were hanging from the ceiling of the room.

The ceiling was high, and the fire hadn't reached it. The body parts were cooked by the heat and smoke.

Even more bizarre, a set of blackened metal cutlery and plates were neatly arranged on the floor, along with some other charred items that were unidentifiable.

What did this mean? Were they planning to eat? Or... was it some kind of unspeakable ritual?

Self-media editors would sensationalize this, making wild speculations. I recalled the bizarre cases in Silverlight City over the past decade. As the most developed city in the West, it wouldn't have cult-related cases. It was likely a cover for some other motive.

Based on my years of experience, I concluded that this was not an accidental fire as reported, but clearly a premeditated arson and murder case, and from the photos, it was a well-planned operation.

At this moment, my phone rang. It was my boss.

He said helplessly, "Nancy, you know, I wanted you to take a good vacation, go out for a few days, maybe have a child with Alan. I've always cared about your life, after all, you're our only..."

He paused for a moment and then continued, "But you've seen the photos. It's clearly not an accidental fire. It has a cult-like feel, but there haven't been similar cases in Silverlight City for the past decade, so let's rule that out. I suspect it's a premeditated murder case. I suggest analyzing it from the perspective of a psychopathic killer. Also, I think we should withhold some details of the case. Although it will cost us some clicks, legal responsibility outweighs profit."

The boss liked to beat around the bush, but I got straight to the point, "If this incident were to be exposed, it would have a huge impact. It would be a blow to the public's psychological endurance and could even encourage similar crimes. Regarding such information, I always follow the position of official media. This is the duty of a legal professional."

The boss said, "Alright, no problem. Then you need to work overtime tonight. I'll send you the information we have. The official media will likely release the real situation tomorrow afternoon. We'll publish our analysis right after."

"OK," I replied.

As soon as the call ended, a compressed file arrived on Facebook. I typed in the password and opened it. Scrolling quickly, I started to read the information.

The incident happened around 9 PM. Police had arrested the suspect—a woman. A photo was attached.

The suspect's identity wasn't important. The motive and the plan behind the crime were the key points.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of that photo, and my heart skipped a beat. The person in the photo looked familiar; I had seen her just a few days ago in a group picture with Alan's college friends.

My fingers felt frozen as I struggled to scroll back. Then Laura Brown's photo appeared before me.

She was at the class reunion tonight. 

Fire, murder, suspect Laura—I felt a chill run through my body as I dialed Alan's number.

Once, twice, three times, no one answered the phone.

I felt as if I had fallen into an icy abyss; my vision darkened, my heart raced, and I couldn't help but tremble slightly. Countless thoughts flashed through my mind.

At this moment, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I stared at the familiar photo, but I didn't dare to answer the call.

I forced myself to calm down, took a deep breath, and answered the call.

"Mrs. Smith? Silverlight City Police. We found a charred body. Initial DNA may match Alan Smith. Please come to identify it. Stay calm… DNA testing on charred bodies is difficult; it might be a mistake."

"Mrs. Smith?"