July 1, 2003.

  I got a call today. It was from Rej — my lover.

  Without hesitation, I pressed the answer button.

  But the voice that came through the speaker wasn’t hers.

  “Hello, brother,” said Johanne.

  His voice was the same as always — calm, steady, with that distant tone he often carried. He never came across as emotionless, but there was always something detached about the way he spoke. It was like he was constantly observing everything from somewhere far off, never fully stepping in.

  “Can you tell me the name of the person you were investigating a few days ago?” he asked, without preamble. “The one you left here for in such a hurry. I want every detail you can give. And I do mean every detail.”

  I paused. Detective work was confidential, and I wasn’t exactly allowed to go around sharing case information. Still, I had asked Johanne for help before. If I wanted his insight, then it was only fair to share what I knew.

  “I can’t really give away too much,” I said, hesitant at first. “Detective work isn’t something we’re supposed to talk about freely. But… fine. I’ll tell you what I can. Why are you even asking, though?”

  “Something’s been bothering me,” he said, his tone unchanged.

  “What is it?” I asked, sitting up straighter in my chair.

  “I don’t know exactly. That mysterious woman you mentioned the other day — something about her keeps nagging at me. It feels like I’ve heard of something like this before.”

  My brows furrowed. “What do you mean? You think you recognize her? You mean to say you’ve seen her before?”

  “I didn’t say that. And honestly, I haven’t,” he said. “But there’s a familiarity to the way this whole situation feels. The more I think about it, the more it bothers me. It’s like a memory I can’t access. Or a pattern I can’t quite place.”

  I went quiet for a moment.

  “I can’t explain it,” Johanne continued. “But this whole thing… it feels like a mystery that even I can’t untangle. And I don’t think I’ll be able to get very far either — not from where I am. I’m not the one directly working the case.”

  He was right. A person could only do so much with secondhand information. A photograph isn’t the same as standing in the room where the photo was taken. Puzzle pieces don’t mean much when you don’t have the puzzle they belong to.

  “But I did find something strange,” Johanne said after a pause. “Do you remember Dieter Schulze? The man who committed suicide back in January — the 12th, I believe?”

  My stomach tightened.

  “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I remember.”

  Dieter Schulze — a former soldier. A man who had survived the horrors of World War II only to take his own life decades later. He had placed a revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The official cause was suicide triggered by post-traumatic stress disorder. He’d lived through death. He’d seen it, caused it — and, eventually, he chose to join it.

  “Do you know what his last words were?” Johanne asked. “I heard he said something, even with the gun already in his mouth.”

  I shook my head. “No. I don’t think I ever read that part of the report. What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘The Final Act is here.’”

  I blinked.

  “The Final Act?” I repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know,” said Johanne. “I assumed it was just the ramblings of a man on the edge. Something poetic, maybe. Like the final chapter of his life, you know?”

  His tone didn’t change, but I could tell he was thinking deeply. Johanne rarely said anything without considering the weight behind it.

  I sat there, quiet, thinking.

  What if he was right? What if there was something deeper going on here — something that connected Schulze’s suicide to Thomas Richter’s, and now Klaus Berger’s?

  My eyes drifted over to the book Frank had given me — the one they found at Klaus Berger’s house, wedged between the couch cushions. Frank said it looked like Berger had been reading it before he died.

  “Brother?” Johanne’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I’d been quiet for too long.

  “Ah, yeah — I’m still here,” I said quickly.

  “I figured. You sounded like you were deep in thought.”

  “I was,” I admitted.

  “Well,” he said gently, “you seem pretty busy. I understand. But when you have a moment, could you send me a list of all the suicide cases reported this year? Just by email is fine.”

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ll do that,” I replied.

  “Thanks.”

  And with that, the call ended.

  I sat there for a moment longer, still staring at the book beside me. Something about this whole thing didn’t sit right.

  Finally, I reached out and picked it up.

  After reading the book, I quickly realized it was nothing more than a science fiction novel. Its subject matter revolved around time travel and the existence of worlds beyond our own—worlds separated by something called "the Veil," a metaphysical boundary between parallel dimensions. It was speculative and imaginative, yes, but there was nothing within its pages that hinted at any direct connection to the death of Klaus Berger.

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  Still, I didn’t give up immediately. I scanned every page meticulously, hoping to uncover something hidden—perhaps a cryptic phrase, a veiled allusion, or even a wordplay or anagram that might point to something deeper. But I found nothing. No strange messages. No eerie pattern. Just fiction.

  Feeling frustrated and defeated, I leaned back in my chair and brought the book up to my face, letting it rest there as I sighed deeply. My legs were propped up on my desk, and for a moment, I let myself slip into the quiet of hopelessness.

  Yet... something kept nagging at me. A persistent, almost painful tug in the back of my mind that refused to let me rest.

  So I made a decision. I grabbed my coat and headed out into the rain, driving toward Thomas Richter’s home.

  The rain had worsened since morning. It wasn’t a sudden downpour—it began as a light pitter-patter, soft enough to ignore. But as I drove further, the skies wept harder, steadily drenching the roads and blurring the windshield. It felt oddly symbolic. As if the more I thought about the mystery, the more the world tried to obscure it. As if some unseen force didn’t want me to see what was coming into view.

  I thought back to what Mrs. Richter—Thomas’s wife—had said the day of his suicide. Her voice echoed in my memory:

  "He was reading a book. Then suddenly, he stood up and told me he was going to get some air. I didn’t think much of it... nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Maybe I should’ve paid more attention.”

  She had said that while clutching a pale handkerchief, her hands trembling as she tried to hold back the tears. That memory stayed with me.

  A book.

  What if… What if the book Thomas had been reading was the same as the one I was holding now? What if there was a connection between the two? And if there was… what would that mean?

  Would it mean Klaus Berger wasn’t the only one?

  Would it mean that whatever lies within the pages of this book was more than fiction?

  What if it wasn’t just science fiction but something disguised as fiction? Some sort of key? Some trigger?

  What if Dieter Schulze had read it too?

  Was it possible that hidden somewhere in the lines—beneath ink and narrative—there were messages that could only be seen by certain eyes? And once seen, those words compelled the reader toward something… final?

  I didn’t know. None of it made sense yet. The pieces were scattered, and I had no edges to build from. But something inside me told me to keep going.

  Eventually, I arrived at Thomas Richter’s residence. I stepped out of the car and walked briskly toward the door, the rain pelting against my coat.

  I knocked.

  After a few moments, the door opened, revealing Mrs. Richter—widowed, pale, and tired-looking.

  "I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Richter,” I began softly. “Would you allow me to come in for a moment?”

  Her expression showed hesitation. “I-Is something wrong, detective?” she asked, her voice tentative.

  “No, nothing urgent,” I said. “I just… I’d like to take a quick look around, if that’s alright. Especially in your husband’s study.”

  She seemed unsure at first, but after a pause, she nodded gently and stepped aside to let me in.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “There’s no need,” I replied. “I won’t be staying long. I’m just here to look at the last book your husband read before he… before he left.”

  She hesitated again, then quietly responded, “Ah… um, alright. His study’s down that hallway, to the left. The door isn’t locked. You can go right in.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a small nod.

  With that, I walked down the hall and entered the study.

  The room was unassuming at first glance—quiet, still, filled with shelves of books. Nothing seemed particularly unusual, and yet, the air in the room felt heavier than the rest of the house. Maybe it was just the weight of knowing what had happened. Or maybe something more.

  Thomas Richter had been a scholarly man, by all accounts. Calm. Intelligent. But it was said he’d been drowning in debt, and in the end, he’d thrown himself off a bridge.

  Still… something didn’t quite add up.

  I turned slowly in place, examining the room. The shelves against the walls were full, lined neatly with novels, research books, and journals. I moved toward them, my hand brushing the spines as I began to search.

  I began pulling out all the books with red covers. One by one, I inspected them, but none matched the book I was looking for. Still, I kept going. Maybe the cover had changed, or maybe it was designed to appear ordinary, to slip past any curious eyes. That possibility lingered in the back of my mind. So I continued, dragging the volumes from the shelves one at a time, opening each of them, flipping through their pages—searching for anything unusual.

  But no matter how thoroughly I looked—no matter how closely I examined the contents—there was nothing. Just ordinary books.

  “Die Dramatiker...” I whispered to myself.

  The Playwrights.

  That was the title of the book Klaus Berger had read before his death.

  “Final act...”

  Those were the last words uttered by Dieter Schulze before he pulled the trigger and ended his life.

  Could there really be something tying all of this together? Something I had failed to see?

  Could there be a connection between that book and Thomas Richter’s death too?

  I didn’t know. And not knowing was driving me mad. I’d cracked dozens of cases before—complex murders, fraud, disappearances—but this... This was different. This case was like staring into a dense fog, no matter how hard I squinted, no matter how far I reached, I couldn't see anything beyond it. I was grasping at shadows.

  And just as I sank into those thoughts—

  I heard something.

  A sharp, sudden sound came from upstairs.

  A thud. The distinct noise of a solid object being knocked over.

  I recognized it immediately.

  It was the same sound I heard before I found my father—years ago—hanging from the ceiling.

  My blood froze. But I didn’t hesitate.

  I ran.

  I charged up the stairs, following the direction of the noise, my heart hammering against my chest. I reached the door at the end of the hall. It was shut tight.

  “Mrs. Richter?! Mrs. Richter!” I shouted. “Please—open the door!”

  There was no response.

  I knocked hard. Then pounded.

  Still nothing.

  Without wasting another second, I threw my weight against the door. Once. Twice. Three times.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  I backed up, then rammed it with my shoulder—again and again—until finally, on the fifth try, it gave way with a loud crack. The door burst open and I stumbled into the room, nearly falling to the floor.

  And then I looked up.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  Mrs. Richter’s feet were suspended in the air, twitching.

  A rope dug into the flesh of her neck, her face already turning a terrible shade of purple. Her body convulsed faintly, the last desperate spasms of someone on the brink of death.

  I didn’t think. I just moved.

  Rushing to her, I threw my arms around her and lifted her weight—alleviating the pressure on her throat. Her body was limp, but then I heard it.

  A sharp gasp. A rough, ragged breath.

  She was still alive.

  She wasn’t moving, but she was breathing. Barely.

  Carefully, I unfastened the noose and brought her down. Her skin was cold. Her pulse was faint—but steady. I laid her gently on the floor, making sure her airway was clear.

  Thank God. I wouldn’t have to perform CPR.

  I reached for my phone to call an ambulance—but then my eyes caught something just a few feet away.

  A book.

  It had a red cover.

  Its details were faint in the dim light, but the lettering on the front was unmistakable.

  “Die Dramatiker.”

  The same book.

  -————-　■　-————-

  In the end, I managed to save Mrs. Richter’s life.

  According to the medical report, she was suffering from severe depression, brought on by the shock and grief of her husband’s suicide.

  It made sense.

  And yet... I couldn’t shake the feeling. That lingering doubt.

  The book was there.

  That same book.

  “Die Dramatiker.”

  Maybe it was nothing more than a terrible coincidence. Maybe Klaus Berger, Dieter Schulze, and Thomas Richter had all read the same novel, and their deaths were completely unrelated to it. Maybe Mrs. Richter only happened to have found it among her husband’s things.

  But I couldn’t let go of the idea.

  Because no matter how many times I searched that book... No matter how many hours I spent poring over the pages, rearranging the letters, looking for hidden messages, deciphering anagrams—nothing came of it.

  There were no ciphers. No codes. No secret markings in invisible ink.

  Nothing.

  Just an old, unassuming fiction book.

  Ordinary.

  Plain.

  And yet, it felt like it was mocking me.

  I had no proof. No evidence. Nothing concrete that I could present to anyone and say, “This is it. This is the link.”

  But deep down, I knew—

  There was something inside that book.

  Something I hadn’t seen yet.