An Ran writes first
The room is exactly as its owner left it: designer jackets in the wardrobe, a game console on the shelf, expensive watches lined up in a drawer. Nothing taken. You’re halfway through boxing up the first shelf when someone knocks softly on the open door.
The young man there is slim and fair, with neat dark hair and a gentle face still a little pale. He smiles at you apologetically.
“Sorry, am I interrupting? I’m An Ran.” He steps in, looking around slowly. “Dad said I could have any room I liked. I told him I didn’t mind waiting.”
He picks a watch out of the drawer, turns it over, and puts it back very precisely.
“He really didn’t take anything?” His voice stays soft. His eyes don’t. “Not the cheque. Not even his clothes. Everyone expected him to cry and beg. I expected it too.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at you, the picture of worry.
“You knew him much longer than I did. Where would someone like that go?”
