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墨書 Inktalez
"What's wrong?" I walked over and asked, a hint of confusion in my tone.
"Don't you think this wall looks a bit strange?" Zhou Fan frowned, his brow furrowing deeper.
"Strange?" I took another look at the wall and noticed its colors were more vibrant than the other three walls, giving it an unreal feeling as if it were shrouded in a mysterious veil.
"It does seem a bit odd, almost like it's fake," I said, stroking my chin, curiosity filling my mind.
Zhou Fan nodded and pulled out a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. With practiced ease, he opened a blade and made a vertical cut on the wall.
The wall's surface silently split open, revealing hidden secrets within. A confident smile spread across Zhou Fan's face as he reached out to grab a piece of the peeling wall and tore it down.
With a ripping sound, the "wall skin" was torn away, but instead of grayish-white cement behind it, there was a corner of an oil painting!
Zhou Fan continued to rip open the entire wall, revealing an oil painting about one square meter in size before us.
It was a vividly colored oil painting depicting what appeared to be a rural landscape of the American West. In the distant background of the scene stood a pure white Christian Church, where many children played on the grass in front of it. Their laughter seemed to echo through the painting, and although the craftsmanship wasn't particularly outstanding, it conveyed a sense of tranquility that could make one forget all worries.
I noticed that at the bottom of the painting was inscribed: Benjamin Disraeli.
Zhou Fan smiled and murmured to himself, "Benjamin Disraeli's 'Country Church,' so that's how it is."
"What?" I didn't catch that and asked with confusion.
Zhou Fan smiled, "An important piece of the puzzle."
We visited the Old Gatekeeper again, and as soon as Zhou Fan met him, he handed over the photo we had discovered, getting straight to the point. "Do you recognize anyone in this photo?"
The Old Gatekeeper was a warm-hearted man. He took the photo, put on his reading glasses, and examined it closely, his focused expression suggesting he was reminiscing about a distant past. After a moment of contemplation, he said, "I know this woman; she's the one you mentioned who goes out every morning."
"Which one?" Zhou Fan pressed, urgency evident in his eyes.
The old man pointed with his calloused finger at the younger girl in the photo with short hair.
"And what about this man?" Zhou Fan continued to inquire.
The Old Gatekeeper thought for a moment and shook his head. "No impression."
"Has anything terrifying ever happened in this neighborhood?" Zhou Fan changed his approach, trying to find clues from another angle.
The Old Gatekeeper looked up. "Terrifying incident?"
"Like a homicide case or something similar," I added.
"There's been no homicide case..." He suddenly paused, then exclaimed with excitement, "But I remember this young man!"
"What?!"
Although I didn't fully understand Zhou Fan's interest in this man, it seemed that the Old Gatekeeper's words could be crucial to the case. Both Zhou Fan and I couldn't help but feel a surge of tension.
"Yes, I remember now," the Old Gatekeeper said with a tone of melancholy unique to the elderly. "What a fine young man he was, such a pity."
"What was his name?" Zhou Fan asked eagerly.
The Old Gatekeeper shook his head. "I can't recall, but I do remember that he used to live in this neighborhood, and he was an artist."
"An artist?" A look of surprise flashed between Zhou Fan and me.
"Yes, an artist, though not very well-known," the Old Gatekeeper affirmed.
"And then what happened?" Zhou Fan continued to inquire.
"Then the young man went missing, and I never saw him again," the Old Gatekeeper reminisced.
"When did that happen?"
"When? Hmm, it must have been a long time ago—at least ten years."
"Ten years?"
I noticed Zhou Fan furrow his brow, deep in thought about what might have transpired during those ten years and how these clues could piece together the truth of the case.
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