To Byrne, Old Anton's words were riddled with holes. Tim had been missing for over three months; if he really had family, they would have come looking long ago, not waited until now. The "distant relative" excuse sounded like a clumsy, improvised pretext.
Just yesterday, Byrne had asked if anyone had come looking for Tim after his disappearance. At that time, Old Anton only mentioned two colleagues and said nothing about anyone else. For a "distant relative" to suddenly appear less than twenty-four hours later was a contradiction that would make anyone suspicious.
With that thought, Byrne closed his eyes. His psychic threads spread out silently once more, like a fine spiderweb enveloping the entire courtyard in an instant. Downstairs, Old Anton was taking the cleared dishes back to the kitchen. Through the perception of his psychic threads, Byrne could clearly capture the slight tremor in Anton's wrists. It wasn't the weakness of old age, but a manifestation of internal tension and panic.
In the kitchen, the rushing water covered the sound of Anton's deliberately shallow breathing. After washing the plates, Anton used a rag to dry his hands with excessive force, as if trying to scrub away some invisible stain. Afterward, he left the kitchen and headed straight for the yard instead of resting in the living room.
Anton didn't start tending to the plants immediately. He stopped before several neatly trimmed flowers, hands clasped behind his back, staring toward the entrance of Wisteria Street. His eyes held no anticipation, only a lingering gravity—as if he were waiting for something, or perhaps fearing it.
Heh, there's definitely a problem.
Byrne withdrew his psychic threads and looked again at the cardboard boxes in the corner. Is there something else hidden in these boxes that I missed?
After a brief moment of consideration, Byrne abandoned the idea of checking them again. First, he didn't have enough time; he had come upstairs to change into his uniform for work, and staying too long would arouse Anton's suspicion. Second, he had already searched them and found nothing but the notebook; if there was anything else, it was likely an encrypted secret he couldn't decipher anyway.
Decided, Byrne quickly changed into his Tax Collector uniform, put on his peaked cap, tucked his communicator into his pocket, and headed out. On the first floor, Old Anton was back inside, sitting on the sofa and polishing an old pocket watch. He didn't stop his work, only glancing up at Byrne. "All set?"
"Yeah, heading to work."
Byrne walked to the entryway and began changing his shoes. He asked casually, "By the way, what time is Tim's relative expected? If I run into them when I get off work, I can give you a hand moving those two boxes."
Anton's hand paused for a fraction of a second. He shook his head. "No need. He said he'd be here around one in the afternoon. By the time you're off work, the boxes will be long gone."
"Alright then. I'm heading out."
With that, Byrne pushed the door open and left. After a while, once certain that Byrne had departed, Old Anton put down the pocket watch and headed for the second floor. He didn't go to his own room but went straight to Byrne's rented bedroom. Upon entering, Anton immediately looked at the boxes in the corner. Seeing no sign that they had been tampered with, he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Sigh, I'm getting senile. I forgot to move these boxes out ahead of time. Luckily, the kid didn't mess with them."
Anton picked up one of the boxes and began carrying it downstairs.
One o'clock in the afternoon. No. 79 Wisteria Street.
The two cardboard boxes had been moved downstairs and were stacked in the living room. Old Anton sat on the sofa, glancing at the clock on the wall from time to time, looking restless.
Ding-ling-ling!Ding-ling-ling!
The doorbell rang. The sound wasn't loud, but it struck Anton's heart like a hammer, making him shudder.
"Coming!"
Anton responded, stood up, smoothed his wrinkled clothes, and walked quickly toward the gate. He peeked through the gap in the door. Standing outside was a tall, thin man wearing a long black trench coat with the collar turned up high. Combined with the bowler hat on his head, his face was mostly obscured. From Anton's perspective, only the man's chin was visible.
It was him. Aside from Tim's two colleagues, this man in black had also visited after Tim vanished. At that time, the man had only left instructions saying he would return for the items today and warned Anton not to reveal his identity.
"You... you've arrived."
Anton opened the gate, his eyes instinctively avoiding the stranger's gaze. The man in black stepped inside and asked, "Where is the item I want?"
His voice was low and raspy, sounding like two rough pieces of metal rubbing together, devoid of emotion.
"In the living room. I've gathered everything for you."
The man in black walked slowly. As he passed the flowers in the yard, the originally open petals actually curled inward slightly, as if in fear. Entering the living room, his gaze immediately locked onto the two boxes. Anton followed behind him, hands clenched tightly together, knuckles white from the strain. He wanted to say something, but his throat felt blocked.
The man felt wrong. Anton couldn't sense any trace of a living human from him; he was like a cold, controlled machine. Looking at the stacked boxes, the man in black turned and asked, "Is this all?"
"Yes, everything Tim left behind. I haven't touched a thing; I kept it all for you," Anton explained hurriedly.
The man said nothing more. He walked to the boxes and reached out with a pale finger, lightly touching the top one. The movement was gentle, yet it caused a grey halo to shimmer on the surface of the box. The halo was as thin as mist, flowing down the edges of the cardboard. Wherever the light touched, the box and its contents began to dissipate at a visible rate, as if corroded by powerful acid.
Anton's eyelids twitched, and he instinctively pulled his feet back, his back soaked in cold sweat. In over fifty years of life, he had never seen such a bizarre sight. Finally, when the two boxes had completely vanished, only one notebook remained on the floor—the same one Byrne had looked at the previous night.
The man in black bent down and picked it up. As he tucked the notebook into his coat, he quickly reached out and tapped Anton's forehead. "Forget the memory of me entirely."
Anton had no time to react before he lost consciousness and slumped to the floor. Leaving the courtyard, the man in black looked up at the sky, turned, and walked back the way he had come.
The man in black did not know that around a nearby street corner, Byrne was observing from the shadows. Seeing the man leave, Byrne took the communicator from his pocket, pressed the red button, and followed.