The Secret We Kept

Lin Wan attended the funeral simply because she had nowhere else to go. Her ex-boyfriend had taken all her belongings when he moved out, including the apartment she’d rented for four years.

The headstone bore an unfamiliar name—Victor Zhou. 1985 to 2026. Dead three months ago from acute myocardial infarction. Died alone, nobody found out, body lying in the study for two days before discovery.

“Strange thing,” someone beside her murmured. “He was a popular person. Everyone said he was easy to get along with. But no one came to send him off.”

Lin Wan stared at the headstone. She didn’t know Victor Zhou. Had never met him in her life.

But the funeral home had called her number as next of kin. When she asked why, they said: “Because you’re in his phone as ‘Emergency Contact.'”

She opened her phone. Found the contact. There it was—her number, listed under a name she’d never seen before.

“Beloved.”

She was still staring at the screen when the funeral director approached.

“Are you Lin Wan?”

“Yes.”

“Victor left something for you. He said you’d know what to do with it.”

The director handed her a sealed envelope. Inside: a photograph and a key.

The photograph showed a house. The key was old-fashioned, heavy.

On the back of the photograph, an address in the mountains, and three words:

“Come alone. At night.”