She was already dying before the fall."
Silence slammed into the room.
No breath.
No movement.
Nothing.
"And when she fell…" my brother whispered, "…it just—"
"Finished it."
The word felt like a blade.
Clean.
My brother stared at me.
Shocked.
Horrified.
"…someone did that," he said.
Not a question.
A realization.
"Yes."
"Who?"
The same question.
Again.
But this time—
it felt heavier.
Because now—
it wasn't just doubt.
It was truth.
"I don't know."
The words tasted bitter.
Useless.
"I checked everything," I continued. "Prescriptions. Reports. Pharmacy logs."
Nothing.
Clean.
Too clean.
"Whoever did it," I said quietly, "made sure there was no trace."
Silence.
Long.
Unbearable.
"…then why does Cheng Mo think it was our mother?" my brother asked finally.
"Because he was told a simpler story."
A push.
A fall.
A death.
Easy to believe.
Easy to hate.
"And you didn't tell him?" he pressed.
I laughed softly.
There was no humor in it.
"Would he believe me?"
Silence answered for him.
Because we both knew—
he wouldn't.
Not now.
Not after everything.
"…Ge," my brother said, voice unsteady, "do you think… she knew?"
My chest tightened.
"Who?"
"Your wife."
A pause.
A long one.
Then—
"…yes."
Barely a whisper.
"I think she did."
Because the way she looked that day—
wasn't fear of falling.
It was something else.
Something deeper.
Like she already knew—
something inside her was wrong.
And as that memory settled in—
cold and suffocating—
one thought rose above everything else.
If she knew—
then maybe…
she also knew—
who did it.
And if that was true—
then her death…
was never an accident.
It was a message.