When Sam stepped through the creaking apartment door, the scene before him made him pause slightly. This wasn't like an ordinary home, more like a forgotten bazaar of old objects, or some eccentric collector's secret warehouse. The air was filled with the mixed scent of old wood, aged books, and faint dust.
Almost every corner of the room was crammed with all sorts of peculiar items: ticking antique grandfather clocks, intricately patterned porcelain vases displayed quietly in glass cabinets, and piles of old, glinting ironware of unknown purpose in the corners. Underfoot was a vintage carpet, its pattern worn but still showing signs of exquisite craftsmanship. The surrounding wooden furniture, though old-fashioned in style, was all wiped clean, exuding a quiet luster of age.
These items were diverse in type and era, yet they were arranged by their owner with effort, as neatly as possible, as if each piece carried an untold story. Together, they formed a fragmented and strange little world, completely isolated from the outside, as if an invisible hand had once torn space-time here, freezing past moments, while a somewhat dim and old "blood" flowed from the wounds of this shattered world.
"Your collection… is quite special," Sam said. He had no real appreciation for these antiques; this was the most inoffensive compliment he could think of.
"Hehe, these things, they're all just stuff my son Jimmy tinkered with." The old man leaned on a quaint wooden cane, shuffling slowly to an armchair, using his age-spotted hand to support himself on its back, barely managing to hold up his frail, twig-like body. A flicker of affection and nostalgia crossed his cloudy eyes.
"That silly boy of mine, he just loved messing with these strange things." The old man seemed happy to share "embarrassing stories" about his son with a stranger, a bittersweet smile on his face. "He was like a cheap antique vacuum cleaner, always heading to those flea markets and antique shops whenever he had free time, specifically looking for those so-called 'rare overseas items'. He was especially obsessed with seventeenth-century stuff, always thinking he had a keen eye and could find a great bargain. And the result? He brought back countless fakes, excitedly taking them to those old experts at the antique dealers for appraisal, only to find out he'd been duped again, so angry he'd stomp his feet, haha!"
As the old man laughed, his voice gradually lowered, and his eyes dimmed. "But, well, I'm old now. I don't have the strength anymore to climb up and down to dust these treasures. Many of the things placed up high, I can only let them gather dust…" His tone carried an undeniable sense of desolation and helplessness.
"Then your son…" Sam looked at the old man's expression and roughly guessed what had happened, not finishing his sentence.
"Jimmy… he passed away, fifteen years ago," the old man said calmly, as if stating an old fact unrelated to himself. "My memory is getting worse and worse now, many things are hazy, but my wife and I, we still remember to celebrate Jimmy's birthday every year. Though we know it's useless, the dead can't be resurrected… but every time we light the candles and watch the flames flicker, I always feel… I always feel like Jimmy's time is still flowing slowly beside us, that it hasn't stopped."
He paused, looking out the window at the city shrouded in chaos and death, his voice becoming somewhat distant. "In this world, the most terrifying thing might be when time stops just for you. Think about it, if you died… well, that sounds a bit harsh… but imagine, if when you died, you suddenly found out you were still 'alive', only everything around you, everyone you knew, everything familiar, had all stopped for you, frozen forever in that moment… how terrifying would that be? That's much scarier than just disappearing cleanly…"
"Like… these antiques, time has stopped for them too?" Listening to the old man and looking at the room full of old objects, Sam suddenly had this inappropriate yet seemingly somewhat reasonable thought, and voiced it directly.
"Haha, perhaps, perhaps just like these things, they've preserved certain moments." The old man chuckled briefly at Sam's analogy, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening. "I haven't asked your name yet. I'm Mitt, Mitt Anderson. And you, young man?"
"Sam. Hello, Mr. Mitt," Sam responded, looking at the old man who tried to appear optimistic but whose brow still bore the deep furrows of age and weariness, like the wrinkles on his face.
"Hello, Sam." Mitt's cloudy gaze lingered for a moment on Sam's police uniform, then a kind, slightly mischievous smile appeared on his face. "Good lad, you look strong. By the way, come with me, say hello to my wife, Daisley. Just say… um, just say you're a friend of Jimmy's."
Seeing Sam's slight confusion, the old man added, "My son Jimmy was a firefighter. Police and firefighters being friends, that's perfectly normal, right?" He winked, lowering his voice a little, with a hint of mystery and entreaty. "And, to tell you the truth, if you don't mention Jimmy's name, my old lady… she might not respond to you at all. Only when Jimmy is mentioned does she react, does she… become a bit more lucid."
Looking at the old man's pleading eyes, which held a barely perceptible sadness, Sam shrugged, tacitly agreeing.
Seeing Sam agree, Mitt's face lit up with a grateful smile. He turned shakily, leaning on his cane, and slowly led Sam towards the bedroom deeper in the apartment.
The bedroom wasn't large, but it too was filled with various objects, though arranged a bit more neatly than the living room. A large bed with a neatly made sheet occupied most of the room. On the nightstand, three framed photographs were neatly arranged.
The first was a faded black-and-white photo: a young man in a leather jacket and a young girl with wavy hair, standing spiritedly beside an old motorcycle, with rolling waves and a beach behind them. They were smiling brightly, as if they owned the world. It looked like a snapshot taken by a passerby during an impromptu short road trip.
The second was a color photo, though its tones were also somewhat aged: the man and woman in the photo were clearly middle-aged, the same couple from the black-and-white picture. Their faces bore more traces of time, but their smiles were still warm. Between them stood a tall, sunny-smiled young man; the middle-aged couple flanked him, hugging their son tightly with pride and affection, as if he were the center of their world.
The last photo was more recent, but the corners of the frame were also somewhat worn: in this photo, the couple had entered old age, their hair white, their faces deeply wrinkled, standing slightly behind. In the center was the once-sunny young man, now also middle-aged, with lines of experience etched around his eyes and brow. He was holding a young woman with an equally radiant smile in his arms, and in the woman's arms was a swaddled infant. A happy family.
The three photos, like three pearls, were strung together by an invisible thread, a condensation of several generations of family life, their joys and sorrows.
"Hi, darling! Look who I brought!" Mitt walked to the bedside, speaking loudly towards someone on the bed, his voice a bit hoarse and strained from the deliberate effort, tinged with an excitement like presenting a treasure.
"Mmm…" It was an old lady with a full head of white hair. She was currently slumped powerlessly in a large wooden armchair, like a lamb that had given up struggling in a swamp. Her white hair still showed faint traces of a once carefully styled perm, but it had long since lost its former luster, much like her pale face, bearing only the ravages of time. Her eyes stared blankly out the window—a small window, its glass faintly reflecting her unfocused visage. She didn't respond to Mitt's words, her gaze still stubbornly fixed on some empty point outside.
"Darling, this guest is quite a surprise." Mitt's voice held a deliberate lightness. He waved his hand like a clumsy magician introducing Sam behind him. "He's a friend of Jimmy's."
"Hmm?" The old lady's body seemed to stir slightly. Her originally dull, lifeless eyes, like an old lightbulb suddenly receiving a faint current, flickered with a barely perceptible light. "Jimmy… he… is he home from work?" Her voice was dry and slow.
"Haha, not yet, dear. A firefighter's work is busy, they don't get off so easily," Mitt chuckled, explaining in a coddling tone.
"I… I need to make him some pumpkin soup…" the old lady mumbled, her hands struggling to push against the arms of the chair, trying to lift her frail body. She strained with all her might, her face flushing red, but her body merely wobbled uselessly, still sunk in the chair.
"Alright, alright, Daisley, don't strain yourself, leave it to me," Mitt quickly stepped forward, gently pressing her shoulder, his tone soft.
"No!" The old lady, surprisingly, turned stubborn. She slightly turned her head, avoiding Mitt's touch, her voice weak but with an undeniable insistence. "You don't know how to make pumpkin soup. You can't even tell sugar from salt."
"Uh… but, dear, our… we seem to be out of pumpkins right now." Mitt's eyes darted around, an excuse forming. He then turned to Sam, with a hint of apology and a request, "Young man, you see… could I trouble you to go out with me and buy some pumpkins?"
"Honestly… how could we be out of pumpkins already…" The old lady named Daisley let out a helpless, almost inaudible sigh. She seemed to have exhausted all her strength, slumping back into the armchair, her gaze once again drifting to the window, eyes staring blankly. As if, at this moment, the chaotic world outside was her true eyes, and she was gazing through her own blurred 'glass' at those equally blurred memories of the past.
Mitt, leaning on his polished cane, shakily led Sam out of the bedroom and back into the cluttered living room.