A Pastor!

Beneath the dim light of the corridor, I found myself nestled against the cool wood of Susan's door, stealing glimpses through the partially ajar entrance. There she was, ensconced in shadows on her bed, her figure barely stirring—much like a wilted bloom that refused the morning's call. Her spirit, it seemed, had not mended since the previous day; she remained ensnared in silence, her essence untouchable, distant from the world's reach.

With a gentle word, I persuaded the classmate tending to her to leave, granting us solitude. Yet, even in privacy, Susan merely acknowledged the change with a faint, listless nod, her world inward, unreachable.

Shawn, having conferred with the physician just yesterday, relayed to me that Susan's afflictions were physical, yes—traumas that marred her flesh—but it was the spectral chains of fear that truly held her captive, a mind ensnared by terror's unyielding grip. Yet, amidst these revelations, she stirred—a sign, perhaps, that the specter of her ordeal was a shadow, not an everlasting night.

My observation had lead me to come to a conclusion, however imperfect, to glimpse beneath the surface. Susan's dance with silence, I surmised, was a masquerade, a veil she draped over her guilt's sharp edges.

Without pretense, I ventured into the heart of our unspoken storm. "Who is Mary?" My question, abrupt as the crack of dawn, shattered the quiet between us.

The name, unanticipated, sent a shiver through Susan. Her eyes, wide with a blend of astonishment and fear, met mine before retreating under the sanctuary of her quilt—a fortress against truths too heavy to bear.

Her silence was a wall, impenetrable and cold. Yet, it was clear as the starlit sky that without unearthing the roots of this mystery, the specter of the past would forever haunt our steps, a red ghost weaving threats into the fabric of Susan's existence.

"I understand the weight of silence, Susan," I began, my voice a blend of softness and steel. "But remember the visitor from yesterday? The officer who stood watch through the night's shadowed hours? His presence is a testament—protection is here, yet the truth cannot remain shrouded forever. The police, their reach long and patient, will unravel this mystery, with or without our voices. Time is a relentless pursuer."

My gaze sought hers, an ocean of emotion beneath a veneer of indifference. My heart ached with disappointment, yet I wielded my words like a duelist's blade, sharp and pointed. "Should the shadows lengthen, and Mary's specter seeks you out, your safety remains but a fragile thread in the night..."

I let my voice trail off, a deliberate pause, an invitation for her to step into the light of truth.

Just as the silence stretched thin, the moment was fractured by Shawn's entrance, his intent to speak halted by an unexpected defiance from Susan. Casting aside her quilt like the chains of her silence, she met my gaze with a stark emptiness and declared, "You are mistaken. That specter, that shadow in the night—it isn't Mary."

In that instant, the mystery deepened, weaving us tighter into its enigmatic embrace, a tale of ghosts, guilt, and the search for truth amidst the echoes of the past.

In the tangled web of secrets and shadows that shrouded this affair, the specter of the unknown loomed largest. My assumption had painted Mary in the ethereal hues of the supernatural, casting her as the ghost that haunted our tale. Su Xiao's sharp refutation, cutting through my conjecture with the precision of a scalpel, left me adrift in a sea of embarrassment. Glancing towards Shawn for some semblance of solidarity, I found only his raised eyebrows, a silent chorus of amusement at my expense.

What was I to do? My skills did not lie in law enforcement, after all.

Yet, in this moment of unraveling mysteries, Susan proved uncharacteristically forthcoming, her narrative painting a picture of a friendship interwoven with love, loss, and the inexorable march of time. She, Cristina, and Mary—three souls bound by childhood memories—had found themselves at life's crossroads post-examination. Fate had ushered Susan and Cristina together, while Mary, propelled by her brilliance, ventured alone into the esteemed halls of an Ivy League institution.

As Susan wove her tale, she confessed to a dream—a nightmare, really—where Mary played a central role. Though she professed an inability to recall the specifics, the ominous presence of a red-clad specter was implied, a phantom threaded through the fabric of her subconscious fears.

Yet, the enigma of the crimson ghost lingered, an unanswered question that Susan danced around with the skill of a seasoned ballerina. The signs were clear as day; Susan knew of the ghost, a knowledge she believed we shared. The question that gnawed at me, however, was what truth she was so desperately guarding.

With the puzzle pieces refusing to fit, I excused myself, stepping into the corridor to find Shawn in a stolen moment of rebellion against the hospital's rules, the ember of his cigarette a small act of defiance. His guilty smile upon seeing me, coupled with the discarded cigarette, spoke volumes of our shared tension.

"Didn't the nurse say this is a smoke-free zone?" I teased, joining him by the window, the world outside oblivious to the storms that brewed within.

His response caught me off guard, a revelation that added layers to his already complex persona. "I know what you're thinking," he started, his voice carrying the weight of untold stories. "Truth is, I'm not just any policeman. Apart from wearing the badge, I also carry a cross. My father's legacy as a pastor and an exorcist runs in my veins."

A pastor? The pieces clicked, a puzzle coming together in the most unexpected of ways. Shawn's dual identity as a lawman and a man of faith offered a new perspective on our quest for truth.

"Indeed, my father's footsteps have led me here. Unlike my peers, my belief in the unseen shapes my pursuit of justice. It's precisely why this case is mine to solve." His admission unveiled a side of him I hadn't anticipated, a reminder that in the search for answers, we often find more than we bargained for.

As Shawn stood before me, an image formed in my mind—a vision of him donned in priestly garb, a cross clutched in his hands. The thought was so incongruent, so utterly whimsical, it almost coaxed a laugh from me. Yet, the gravity of our situation tethered my amusement.

Finding words seemed like a Herculean task, and so, with a heart heavy with unvoiced thoughts, I turned my steps towards Susan's ward, leaving the specter of laughter behind.

The ward greeted me with the gentle chaos of a fluttering curtain, a breeze whispering secrets as it danced through the open window. It was then, in the play of light and shadow, that a glint of yellow caught my eye, a mystery nestled beneath Susan's bed.

A plan, sudden and bold, took root in my mind.

Seating myself beside Susan, I played the part of caregiver, stirring the porridge with a theatrical diligence. As I brought the spoon to her lips, my hand 'slipped', sending the spoon clattering to the floor—an awkward smile my only shield against Susan's puzzled gaze.

The ruse was simple; to retrieve the spoon was to unveil the secret beneath the bed. Yet, the knowledge of Shawn's dual life had dulled my appetite for mysteries. What lay hidden seemed inconsequential compared to the weight of revelations already shared.

Handing the porridge to Susan once more, I seized the moment to pierce the veil of silence. "Do you think hiding will shield you forever?" I asked, a gentle challenge in my tone.

Susan, perhaps weary from our dance around truths unsaid, offered only a silent sip of her porridge in response, her eyes averted, a fortress of solitude.

Our conversation, it seemed, was destined to wander in circles, chasing shadows of what might have been had confessions been made under the ghost's moonlit vigil.

Exiting the ward, I mused on the fragility of 'what-ifs', leaving Susan under the watchful eye of the daylight and the cross's unseen protection.

Shawn remained a sentinel in the corridor, unchanged, a constant in the ever-shifting tide of our investigation.

A nurse, her cart bearing the somber weight of life and loss under a blood-stained shroud, passed by—a stark reminder of the cycle of birth and death that marched on, oblivious to our personal tumults.

My hand, drawn by a sudden impulse, rested on my abdomen, the reality of the life within me a concept still grappling for purchase in my mind.

Shawn's voice, breaking through my reverie, carried a note of curiosity, perhaps an invitation to explore the deeper meaning of his cross, his faith.

His inquiry, tinged with concern, left me wondering if my actions had betrayed my thoughts, laying bare my own vulnerabilities and the growing connection between us, a bond forged not just in the pursuit of shadows but in the shared light of understanding and the burgeoning life I carried.