The Truth Never Dies

The damp air was thick with the stench of mold, as if this old house, along with my memories, was slowly decaying. The walls were covered with intricate cracks, like silent sighs, whispering the cruelty of time. My name is Ethan Smith. Ever since that accident shattered my right leg, my life has been like a runaway train, completely derailed. I lost my job, my savings drained, and the city’s exorbitant rent became a shackle I couldn’t bear. With no other choice, I dragged my crippled leg and moved back to this dilapidated suburban house—the only inheritance my grandmother left me.

The house was ancient and crumbling. The wooden stairs creaked ominously with every step, as if they might collapse at any moment. The windows were coated in thick dust, allowing only faint rays of sunlight to filter through, casting dim yellow beams that seemed to pity this forgotten corner of time. The surrounding neighborhood was nearly deserted; most neighbors had long moved to new residential areas, leaving only a handful of people like me—abandoned by life—barely clinging to existence. There was no bustle here, no surveillance cameras, not even functioning streetlights; half of them were broken. When night fell, the entire block sank into a deathly silence, broken only by the low hum of the wind brushing against the tattered eaves, as if murmuring some unspeakable secret.

For me, the only advantage of this place was that it was free. It could shield me from the wind and rain, giving me a corner to curl up in within this indifferent world. During the day, I drew the heavy curtains, shutting myself in darkness, with only the faint glow of my computer screen as my companion. That was my sanctuary from reality—a virtual game world. There, I could be a nimble warrior, a cunning mage, or even have a warm home and comrades to fight alongside. In reality, I was just a limping, penniless nobody, for whom even finding a job to scrape by had become a distant dream.

That accident didn’t just take my health; it crushed my hope for life. The compensation money slipped through my fingers like sand, no matter how tightly I tried to hold on. When the numbers in my bank account turned to zero, I knew I could never return to my old life. After moving back to the old house, I became almost completely isolated. Apart from occasional trips to buy food and necessities, I never left. My life was as monotonous as a blank sheet of paper: I’d wake up in the morning, nibble on some dry bread, then lose myself in the game until hunger struck again, forcing me to cook instant noodles or heat up a few cold, hard buns. At night, while the game world was ablaze with lights, I huddled in this cold, gloomy house, feeling loneliness wrap around me like an invisible net.

I tried to start over. When my leg injury improved slightly, I sent out a few résumés, but the cold rejection letters stabbed at me like sharp icicles, leaving me disheartened. The disdain and pity in the interviewers’ eyes hurt more than any words could. Gradually, I gave up struggling, willingly sinking into the virtual world where I could at least find a sense of control and worth.

My black hoodie was faded from washing, its cuffs frayed, but it remained my go-to outfit when I went out. The oversized hood could cover my face, shielding me from the stares of passersby. When I walked, the old injury in my right leg throbbed faintly, forcing me to drag my steps, making my limp more noticeable. I had long grown used to the strange looks from others and learned to ignore them. As long as I could buy the essentials to survive, nothing else mattered.

That afternoon, a rare beam of sunlight pierced through the heavy clouds, spilling into the old house and bringing a touch of warmth. I was fully immersed in controlling my game character, the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard and mouse the only connection between me and the virtual world. Suddenly, a series of loud, aggressive knocks—like a sharp blade—tore through the tranquility.

My fingers froze in midair, the game screen freezing along with them. Since moving here, no one had ever come looking for me. Who would come to this remote corner? A mix of unease and confusion began to grow in my chest as the knocking grew more urgent, accompanied by a gruff shout: “Open the door! Police!”

My heart jolted, a chill washing over me. The police? Why were they looking for me? I racked my brain, trying to recall anything I’d done recently, certain I hadn’t broken any laws. Could it be about the compensation dispute? Or because I hadn’t found a job? All sorts of wild guesses sprouted in my mind like weeds, leaving me at a loss.

“If you don’t open the door, we’ll break it down!” a voice roared, its threat undeniable.

I knew this rusted wooden door wouldn’t hold them back. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to stay calm, dragged my impaired right leg, and slowly walked to the door, my trembling hand pulling it open.

The moment the door opened, several police officers surged in like a tidal wave, their movements rough and swift, their boots thudding loudly against the floor. One of them shoved me hard, barking, “Don’t move! Hands up!”

I instinctively raised my hands, staring at these intruders in bewilderment. Their gazes were icy, as if they could pierce right through me. My small room was instantly overtaken by them, feeling even more cramped and suffocating.

“What… what’s this about?” I asked, my voice shaky as I tried to stay calm.

“Ethan Smith?” The lead officer looked at me coldly, his eyes sharp enough to cut through my soul.

I nodded, a flood of unease rising in my chest.

“We suspect you’re connected to a murder case,” his words hit me like a bolt from the blue, crashing down on me. “Now, come with us quietly for the investigation.”

A murder case? Me? How could that be? I opened my mouth to protest, but my throat felt blocked, unable to make a sound. The look in their eyes told me this was no joke, nor a misunderstanding.