Chapter 2: Letter from the Dead

The rain was still falling, but the moisture inside the warehouse had already crystallized into frost on the walls.

Anna didn’t move the body. She just shifted her weight, gently lifting the corpse’s stiff wrist. The fingers were twisted by rigor mortis, still clamping down hard on a black smartphone.

The screen was dark, but in that split second just now, a notification had flashed—a mail alert from her grandfather’s old email domain. It was an "Echo." Anna stared at that familiar string of numbers, her heart clenching in her chest. This wasn’t a coincidence. It was an invitation, or a trap that had been set long ago.

"Anna, back up a little."

The voice had a heavy Saxon lilt, steady and controlled. Ernst Vogt stepped out of the shadows, that heavy leather case still in his hand. Rainwater dripped from the hem of his wool coat. He glanced at the man on the floor, then at the ancient map with its rain-damaged edges, his brow knotting like a rusty nail.

"The cops aren't here yet, right?" Ernst asked. There was no question in his tone, just confirmation.

"They left," Anna wiped the rain from her face, her voice rough. "Downstairs. They said there were no signs of forced entry, the lock was intact. Preliminary judgment: accidental slip, head trauma."

"Accidental." Ernst chewed on the word, a cold smirk pulling at his lips. "A raincoat soaked in mud, a shattered phone, and a pre-war surveying map worth a fortune. Anna, your gut is more honest than their police report."

"But I heard something else." Anna spoke up suddenly, her eyes locking onto Ernst sharply. "The moment the man hit the ground, there was still sound coming from his earphones. Faint, covered up by the rain, but I heard the 'resonance' in the background. That echo was wrong."

Ernst paused for a beat, then pulled a pair of white gloves from his briefcase, putting them on with precise rigor. "Spill it, Miss Musician. If it were you, how would you describe that 'wrongness'?"

Anna stood up and pointed to the white earbud still stuffed in the corpse’s left ear.

"Look at this position. If this was a natural death, or just a simple impact, the human instinct would be to gasp or breathe hard. But the background audio in that earphone had a rigid, rhythmic 'cut point.' Like someone used editing software to forcibly stitch two different frequencies of ambient noise together. There’s a gap of about 0.4 seconds in the middle.

If this were a real on-site recording, no matter how heavy the rain was, you wouldn’t get that kind of 'silence.' Unless... the recording was added in post-production, or the source was moved after the man died."

Ernst was silent for a moment. The suspicion in his eyes faded, replaced by a rigorous academic interest. He walked over to the map lying on the wooden table and carefully unfolded it.

Rainwater had created dark halos on the edges of the parchment. The map was ancient, the lines crude, marked with place names from before the 1940s. There was a distinct tear in the center, like a corner had been ripped away.

"Is this the one that went missing from the history archives at Humboldt University?" Ernst asked quietly, his fingers hovering above the map,不敢 to touch it. "If so, it’s much older than the 'post-war leftover' that Chief Frank claimed. Look at the pulp texture, and this special iron gall ink.

It’s the specific formula used by the Prussian Surveying Bureau in 1938. When that ink oxidizes, it turns a unique reddish-brown. Modern fakes can’t do that."

"You're sure?" Anna asked. "Because my grandfather was accused of forging maps in that same style. He was ruined. If this is real, it means there was a hole in the chain of evidence that was used to frame him back then. But more importantly, why did he die here?"

Ernst didn't answer immediately. His fingers lightly stroked the back of the map. Suddenly, he stopped. He peeled back the corner of his glove and carefully scraped at a dull spot on the bottom right.

There was a nearly faded seal mark, half-covered by later ink, but under the light, the outline was still clear—a ring of gears surrounding a unique emblem.

"What is that?" Anna leaned in, holding her breath.

"The Krueger used-book auction house," Ernst said, his voice low. "But this isn't just any auction stamp. Look at the number of teeth on the gear, and the way the central emblem is modified. It's the private seal Otto Krueger used twenty years ago. After that, his old warehouse burned down, and all the records were supposedly turned to ash."

A chill crawled up Anna's spine. "If the building burned, how can that seal be on this map? And it's on the back. That means Krueger flipped it over, examined it. Maybe he even kept it."

"It gets worse," Ernst looked up, his eyes cold. "The missing corner of this map? It’s exactly the part Krueger claimed was 'lost' in his last public auction. Twenty years ago, that fire wasn't an accident. It was money laundering.

He deliberately destroyed a batch of high-value artifacts to cover up previous illegal transactions, wiping out all the flow records in the process. But this seal proves that this map was under his control, briefly, before the fire."

Just then, sirens wailed outside the warehouse, getting closer and closer. Anna grabbed the map, folded it quickly, and shoved it into her waterproof backpack.

"You're taking it?" Ernst’s eyes widened. "Anna, this is evidence. And Frank is waiting out there to take over this case. You know his habits. He'll classify any 'inconvenient' physical evidence as 'damaged goods pending appraisal' and lock it in his private safe."

"My father died in that fire," Anna's voice was light, but every word drove itself into the air like a nail. "The official report said 'old wiring.' But I'm the only one who knows that Krueger, who was living in the nearby warehouse at the time, suddenly closed down his business three months later.

This seal isn't proof of the map's value. It's proof that someone left their fingerprints in a conspiracy that spanned twenty years."

The sirens stopped outside. Car doors opened. Boots splashed through the puddles.

Ernst sighed, pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed a number. "Greta, it's Ernst. No, don't tell Anna I contacted the railway company. I need you to look into the logistics archives of Krueger's old warehouse from twenty years ago.

If those paper records really burned up, the railway company’s backup freight data might still be sitting on a cold storage server in Munich or Frankfurt. Yes, the circulation path of that map. Anna needs to know where that missing corner ended up."

He hung up and looked at Anna, a complex light in his eyes. "Frank will be up here in a minute. He won't give you a chance to explain. You need an identity, one that keeps him from messing with you."

"What am I?" Anna asked, gripping her backpack straps tight.

"You're a suspect for 'illegally holding national secret artifacts,' but you're also someone who might hold the key evidence."

Ernst quickly snatched the map back from Anna, stuffed it into his leather case, and locked it.

"I'll use the academic appraisal process to buy time. Frank loves procedural justice, at least in his own backyard. But Anna, be careful. The logistics records Greta finds will only tell us where the missing corner is, not who took it. And that person might be more dangerous than Frank."

Anna watched Ernst close the case, the "click" of the metal latches sounding unnaturally loud in the empty warehouse.

The iron door of the warehouse was pushed open.

Several officers in high-visibility vests rushed in, led by William Frank. He wasn't wearing his usual rumpled suit today; he was in a dark blue jacket, looking like an ordinary citizen, but there was a calculating sharpness in his eyes.

"Miss Wolff," Frank smiled, his gaze sweeping over the case in Ernst's hands. "We just got a report about illegal intruders here. Lucky for us, Professor Vogt is already here. You know how it is, academia cooperating with the police always leads to unexpected 'accidents.'"

Ernst adjusted his tie, looking calm. "William, we are assisting the investigation. Anna found some... interesting acoustic anomalies. Did you hear that? The 0.4-second silence."

Frank’s smile froze for a split second, then returned to normal. "Acoustics? Anna, you're a musician, not a forensic pathologist. Time of death is for the forensic team. Audio editing is for the police. But the map," he pointed at the case, "preliminary judgment says it's a valuable historical artifact.

Per procedure, we need to transfer it to the museum for sealed appraisal. You know, the city has been very strict about artifact management lately. Especially those... controversial items."

"Controversial items?" Anna sneered. "You mean the artifacts Krueger used for money laundering? Frank, do you really think that fire cleaned up every trace? That seal on the back of the map, you think I couldn't see that?"

Frank’s expression instantly cooled. The mask of hypocrisy peeled back a layer, revealing the coldness underneath. "Anna, are you accusing a senior official of the archaeological bureau? You need evidence. That seal could just be forged graffiti. And that map, before it's appraised, is public property. Which means, it belongs to me."

He stepped forward, extending his hand in a gesture demanding the case.

Ernst didn't move. He leaned against the wall, looking at Frank with a mocking curve to his lips. "You can take the case, William. But remember, Greta Drescher is pulling the railway freight data packets right now.

If the circulation records for that map don't end up on your desk within twenty-four hours, the next seal we find won't just be 'graffiti.' It will be admissible evidence in court."

Frank’s hand stopped in mid-air. A tense standoff hung in the air. The rain kept falling, but inside the warehouse, it felt like all sound had frozen.

Anna stared at Frank, knowing clearly that this negotiation was just to buy time. The real war had only just begun. And that faded auction stamp was like a seed buried under the snow. Once it sprouted, it would devour the entire historical surface of Dresden.