Chapter 2: The Forgotten Badge

It was the first real emotion I’d seen from him—a flicker of fear, maybe even hope. His footsteps were quick, almost frantic. I held my breath, waiting to see what he’d do.

I was puzzled. I clearly hadn’t touched the table—how could I have knocked over the photo frame? Ghost logic was making less and less sense.

The laws of physics didn’t seem to apply anymore, but the laws of grief and longing sure did. I felt more out of place than ever.

Just as I was wondering, Dr. Harrison had already passed through me and reached the table. He seemed to sense something. His tall figure paused, but he didn’t immediately pick up the frame. Instead, he glanced back.

His sudden glance startled me. When he looked back, his eyes seemed to stare straight at me. For a moment, I thought he could see me. My heart—or whatever was left of it—stopped.

I felt exposed, as if he might call my name at any second. My nonexistent heart skipped a beat. I wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

As I stood there dazed, I suddenly felt myself being yanked. Turning around, I saw the reaper looking at me with lingering fear. “My bad, my bad. I forgot to tell you—don’t go passing through objects or people casually. You can’t touch those things, but where you float brings a chill. If you pass through a person’s body, that cold energy enters them, and that’s a loss of virtue. If you lose virtue, even if you recover your memory, you can’t move on!”

He wagged a finger at me like a substitute teacher. “Trust me, you don’t want to mess with karma. It’s a paperwork nightmare.”

The reaper nagged at me. I listened, but it didn’t stop me from disliking him. After all, if he hadn’t pushed me in, I wouldn’t have lost my balance and knocked over the photo frame. Thanks for nothing, buddy.

But I didn’t want to argue, so I floated aside, watching the man pick up the photo frame. His deep eyes gazed tenderly at the photo, his long fingers occasionally tracing over it, lost in thought.

He looked so lost, so heartbreakingly gentle, that for a second I wished I could reach out and comfort him, just like old times—if only I could remember what those times were. The ache in my chest was almost unbearable.

Curious, I leaned in. In the photo, a young woman in a police uniform stood tall, holding her badge in her left hand, her short hair making her look sharp and determined. She stood in front of the Maple Heights Police Department, an American flag reflected on her smiling face. Even in the photo, you could see the sparkle in her eyes. Something about her felt so familiar it hurt.

Something about her stance, the pride in her smile, tugged at something deep inside me—a memory just out of reach. I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it.

“24119... Hey, why’s there a string of numbers on her chest?” The reaper had come up at some point, peering over my shoulder.

“That’s a badge number,” I blurted out.

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My voice sounded foreign, like it belonged to someone else. I stared at my own lips, shocked.

The reaper looked at me in surprise, full of astonishment. I wasn’t the only one surprised—I was shocked, too. The realization was like a punch to the gut.

His eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, I felt like the answer was right there on the tip of my tongue. I held my breath, waiting for it to come.

I didn’t speak, just stared blankly at the badge number on the woman’s chest in the photo, muttering, “24119... 24119... Officer Blair’s badge number, passed down from her father. I will treat 24119 as a lifelong honor and carry on my father’s legacy! 24119 Blair, reporting for duty!”

The words came tumbling out, half-remembered, half-instinct. I could almost hear a crowd cheering, see hands clapping me on the back. My chest swelled with pride. It felt real.

For some reason, these voices and scenes flashed through my mind. I seemed to see myself receiving something from someone. I couldn’t see their faces, or maybe everything around was blurry—even some voices were unclear. The only thing I could see clearly was the silver badge with 24119 written on it.

It glinted in the sunlight, cool and heavy in my palm. I felt the weight of responsibility, the promise of something bigger than myself. My hand trembled as I remembered.

They shouted to me: “24119, welcome back!” The voice was deafening, thunderous. I could almost feel the ground shake beneath my feet.

The sound vibrated in my chest, filling me with a sense of belonging I’d never known before—or had I? The memory faded as quickly as it came. I reached for it, but it slipped away.

I don’t know how long it lasted, but those words echoed in my ears until the reaper nudged me, pointing at the photo. “The person in the photo looks like you. Were you a cop when you were alive?”

“Was I?”

The question hung in the air, heavy as rain clouds. I stared at the photo, searching for answers in my own eyes. The uncertainty gnawed at me.

I snapped out of it, looking at the photo, but except for those few blurry scenes just now, I still couldn’t remember anything else. The frustration made me want to scream.

The frustration was sharp—a puzzle with too many missing pieces. I wanted to throw something, but my hands just passed through the world.

“I think this man must be connected to you. If you want to recover your memory, why not follow him and see if you remember anything?” the reaper suggested. I didn’t say anything, but I agreed with him. If the woman in the photo was me, then the way Dr. Harrison looked at the photo was filled with deep familiarity. That look made my heart tighten—I felt like I shouldn’t forget him.

I hovered closer, drawn to him by a force I couldn’t name. There was something about the way he held the photo, as if it were the last piece of a shattered world. I couldn’t look away.

Dr. Harrison put down the photo and went to the locker room to change into blue scrubs. Then, as if making up his mind, he walked to the autopsy table. A body lay on the table. When I looked at it, I was stunned.

The sight hit me like a punch to the gut. The world tilted, and I had to fight the urge to look away. My knees—or whatever I had—went weak.

The reaper glanced at it and gasped, “Damn, I’ve seen a lot, but this... this is next level. What kind of evil did she face in life!”

His voice was low, almost reverent. The room seemed to grow colder, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. I felt a shiver run through me.

He wasn’t exaggerating. The whole body was unrecognizable. No uninjured spot, no hair, one eye gouged out, multiple areas rotting... Even without an autopsy, it was clear what kind of torture she’d suffered before death.

I felt a wave of nausea, even though I didn’t have a stomach anymore. The sight was almost too much to bear. My mind recoiled, but I couldn’t look away.

If my feeling was right... Was this really me? Was this my body? The realization hit hard, making me stagger. “This should be my body.”

The words sounded hollow, echoing in the sterile room. I shivered, wishing I could disappear all over again. My mind screamed in protest.

I should have been happy, but I really couldn’t be. Who could be happy seeing their own body like this? The thought was bitter.

Maybe realizing his earlier words were too much, the reaper coughed, then looked at me with sympathy. “Well, being a ghost, you have to let things go. At least we finally found out how you died. As long as you know what you did in life, recovering your memory and moving on shouldn’t be far off, right?”

He tried to sound encouraging, but his words fell flat. There’s no Hallmark card for this kind of situation. I almost laughed at the absurdity.

We? Are we that close?

I shot him a look, but he just shrugged, as if to say, "Hey, misery loves company." His face was all mock innocence.

The reaper tried to cheer me up, but I felt that not telling him to get lost was already being polite. I didn’t need a cheerleader right now.

But, being a ghost or a person is probably the same. Strong curiosity drove me—I wanted to know what I did before I died, and why I died so miserably. I thought the only person who could answer that was Dr. Harrison.

It was the same kind of stubbornness that had probably gotten me killed in the first place. I needed answers, even if they hurt. That was just who I was.

I floated opposite Dr. Harrison, who stood before the autopsy table, unmoving. He lowered his head, looking at my body. The light above the table was too harsh—I couldn’t see his expression. I wondered what he was thinking.

The shadows carved deep lines in his face, making him look older, wearier. The silence was deafening. I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

I don’t know how long he stood there before he finally moved, picking up a scalpel, apparently about to begin the autopsy. But he stopped, his hand holding the scalpel hovering above my body.

His knuckles were white, his breath shallow. The scalpel trembled in his grip, catching the light. I could see the conflict in his eyes.

I heard his breathing grow heavier and more rapid, and I could see his hand trembling as he gripped the scalpel. His other hand clenched into a fist, as if suppressing something. After taking a shaky, deep breath, the scalpel finally descended slowly.

The cut was careful, almost reverent. It was as if he were afraid to hurt me, even now. I wanted to cry, but no tears came.

He used the scalpel to cut open my skin inch by inch. Though he tried to control himself, his hand still shook. I think I must be the first ghost in this world to watch her own body being dissected.

I wondered if I should feel something—fear, disgust, grief—but all I felt was numb. Maybe the pain would come later.

The reaper kept glancing at my face, probably wanting to see what expression I’d make watching my own autopsy. But I remained unmoved the whole time. I didn’t have the energy for drama.

He seemed disappointed, as if he’d been hoping for some dramatic reaction. Sorry to disappoint.

I didn’t know why—maybe because of memory loss—but I felt nothing at all. Just empty. Like a blank canvas.

I was a blank page, waiting for someone to write my story back in. I wondered what the next line would be.

Dr. Harrison’s movements were gentle, yet skillful. He checked every part of my body carefully, from outside to inside. With every spot he examined, his eyes grew redder, his trembling worse.

He kept pausing, as if each new wound was a fresh betrayal. His jaw clenched, and I could see the veins stand out on his neck. The grief was raw.

Maybe it was the overhead light, but even in this cold room, his forehead was covered in sweat, gathering at the corners of his eyes and dripping down.

Each drop sparkled in the harsh light, mingling with the tears he refused to shed. I wanted to reach out and wipe them away.

I don’t know how long it was before he put down the scalpel, utterly exhausted. He staggered to the workbench, but in just a few steps, he fell three times.

He caught himself on the edge of the table, hands splayed wide. For a moment, I thought he might collapse altogether. I held my breath.

He shakily removed his gloves, picked up the pen on the table, his throat bobbing a few times. Looking at the autopsy report in front of him, he paused for a long time, as if not knowing how to start.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the scratch of pen on paper and the sound of his ragged breathing. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath.