Chapter Two: The Imprint of Death
Scene 1: Shore of Memory – The Following Morning
The "Black Sand" beach was empty when Orpheus arrived.
It was barely past seven in the morning. The sky hung low under a thick blanket of gray clouds, as if it were pressing down on the sea itself. A light drizzle came and went—too faint to soak his coat, yet enough to chill the air and weigh it with dampness.
The waves moved lazily, rolling onto the shore and leaving behind streaks of white foam that quickly vanished into the black sand, as though they had never existed.
Orpheus stood at the edge of the water, his hands buried in the pockets of his gray coat. His breath rose in pale clouds in the cold morning air. He stared at the horizon, where sea and sky dissolved into a single gray mass, separated only by a faint white line of distant waves.
He was reconstructing the echoes in his mind.
Again. And again.
The gloved hand.
The curved sickle.
The whisper in the victim's ear.
And then—the envelope, slipped into the chest pocket… before disappearing.
Why did he disappear?
Orpheus shook his head, then bent down and picked up a small stone from the black sand. He tossed it into the sea. It struck the surface with a soft crack before the waves swallowed it whole.
Another stone. Then another.
With each throw, he felt a small weight lift from his chest.
But he knew it would return.
It always did.
After the seventh stone, he stopped.
He reached into his coat and pulled out an old photograph, its edges worn from years of handling. Three figures stood under a bright sun on a beach—though not this one. That beach was alive with color, its waters blue and warm.
A man. A woman. Two boys.
He was one of them—laughing freely, without restraint.
Beside him stood an older boy, smiling faintly, his eyes fixed on the camera with an unsettling confidence.
Orpheus—or Photios, as he had once been—studied that face.
The face he had not seen in twenty years.
"Where are you?" he whispered, asking the same question he had asked himself every morning for two decades.
The sea did not answer.
Only the waves. And the rain.
He slipped the photograph back into his pocket.
He had come for a moment of quiet before returning to the storm.
But deep down, he knew—
The quiet he was searching for no longer existed in this world.
Perhaps it never had.
He cast one last look at the gray sea, then turned and walked back to his car, parked behind the dunes.
Scene 2: Return to the City – The Road
The roads were nearly empty at that hour.
Orpheus drove slowly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the open window despite the cold. The drizzle brushed his face now and then.
He was thinking about the photograph.
About that face.
His phone rang.
Irene.
"Where are you?" she asked without preamble.
"On my way."
"I need you here. There's something in the recording."
"Minutes."
He hung up.
Pressed slightly on the gas—
Then his eyes caught something in the rearview mirror.
A black car. About two hundred meters behind him. Matching his speed.
He kept driving.
Changed lanes twice.
The car followed both times.
Just before entering the tunnel leading into the city center—
It vanished.
It didn't enter behind him.
And it wasn't there when he emerged.
Orpheus stopped at a red light, frowning.
Surveillance?
Or coincidence?
He remembered the message left on his apartment door days earlier:
"Do not go where you are not invited."
Perhaps—
It was already too late.
Scene 3: Police Headquarters – Irene's Office
Irene was seated behind her desk when Orpheus entered.
The surface was cluttered with papers, photographs, and a small recorder. She wore a simple black jacket, her short hair still damp—evidence she hadn't slept.
"Black Sand beach?" she asked without looking up.
"How did you know?"
"Sand on your shoes." She finally raised her eyes. "And I know you go there when you need to think."
Orpheus sat across from her.
"You said there's something in the recording."
She pushed the recorder toward him.
"Listen."
He pressed play.
At first—silence.
Then a rough, distorted voice whispered:
"Do you remember that day? The day they came to your neighborhood?"
A pause.
Then another voice—weak, trembling. The victim:
"What do you want? Who are you?"
"I'm the one who remembers."
A metallic sound—something being drawn.
Then the killer again:
"Do you remember his face? The man who laughed while the others screamed?"
"I don't know what you're talking about… please…"
"You saw him. You were there. Your eyes were open."
A choking sound.
Then silence.
Footsteps—soft, deliberate, as if on wood.
Then the recording ended.
Orpheus closed his eyes.
There was something about the voice.
Something familiar—
But buried. Deep. Out of reach.
"What do you think?" Irene asked.
He opened his eyes.
"The conversation points to something in the past. Something linking the killer to the victim."
"Or linking the killer to someone else—and the victim was a witness."
"Possible."
"Our audio team couldn't identify the killer," she said. "The voice is distorted—intentionally, most likely. But they confirmed one thing."
"What?"
"The recording begins and ends within the estimated time of the murder. The killer recorded the act in real time."
A chill ran down Orpheus's spine.
"He wanted us to hear it."
"Or he wanted to hear it himself," Irene replied. "Maybe it's part of a ritual."
Silence lingered.
Then Orpheus asked:
"What about the victim? Rami Karam?"
Irene slid a thick file toward him.
"This is what we found."
Scene 4: The Victim's File
Orpheus flipped through the pages slowly.
Rami Karam. 43. Customs officer for eighteen years. No criminal record. Married. Two children.
An ordinary man—
On paper.
"His official salary doesn't exceed thirty thousand a month," Irene said, "but his bank records show deposits exceeding a million annually."
Orpheus looked up.
"Since when?"
"Five years ago. Exactly."
"…What happened five years ago?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. But there's more."
She placed a photograph in front of him.
An old one. Taken at a formal event.
Rami Karam stood beside two well-dressed men.
"This was ten years ago," Irene said. "One of these men died in a car accident a month later. The other disappeared three months after that."
"Connected?"
"I don't know. But Rami's name appears in multiple old police reports—not as a suspect. As a witness."
Orpheus narrowed his eyes.
"How many?"
"Three cases. Violent incidents. Every time, he claimed he was 'in the wrong place at the wrong time.'"
Orpheus leaned back slightly.
"A recurring witness."
"A professional one," Irene corrected. "Or at least someone always present when violence occurs."
Orpheus remembered the recording:
You saw him. You were there.
"Maybe he witnessed something the killer doesn't want forgotten."
"Or something the killer wants everyone to remember."
Orpheus studied the photo again.
Something felt off.
The way Rami stood.
Not guarding.
Not posing.
Waiting.
"I need to speak to his family."
"I expected that," Irene said. "His wife is at their house in the suburbs. But there's someone else."
She pulled out another photograph.
A man in his forties. Beard. Thick glasses.
"This man visited Rami frequently, according to neighbors. Always at night. Left before dawn."
"Who is he?"
"No name. No phone records. No messages. Even the wife claims she's never seen him."
Orpheus frowned.
"So he visits only when she's asleep?"
"And leaves before she wakes up."
A thread tightened in Orpheus's mind.
"Then he's either a partner…"
"Or sent by someone."
"…Or preparing him," Orpheus said quietly.
"For death."
Scene 5: The Plan
By eleven, they had a plan.
"I'll visit the family," Irene said. "Talk to the wife."
"And I'll go to the archives. I want the old case files."
"Be careful."
He glanced at her.
"What do you mean?"
"If Rami was a witness in violent cases, those cases belong to someone."
"I'm not afraid of old files."
"I'm not worried about the files."
A pause.
He nodded.
"I'll be careful."
"You said that last time."
"This time I mean it."
He stood, heading for the door—then paused.
"Irene."
"Yes?"
"The voice… it felt familiar."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"Maybe you want it to be," she said. "Maybe you're looking for something you already know."
He didn't answer.
He left.
Scene 6: Outside the Building – The Feeling of Being Watched
Orpheus stepped out into the street.
The clouds still hung heavy. The drizzle hadn't stopped.
He reached for his hat—
Then froze.
He felt it.
That gaze.
Sharp. Heavy. Piercing the back of his skull.
He didn't move.
Only his breath drifted into the cold air.
In the reflection of a parked car—
He saw it.
Fifty meters away.
Under a dim streetlamp—
A figure.
Tall.
Dressed in a long black coat.
The face partially hidden beneath a hood—
But the eyes—
Clear.
Sharp.
Locked onto him.
Orpheus turned instantly.
No one.
The street was empty.
The lamp stood alone.
No shadow beneath it but its own.
He remained still, heart pounding unnaturally fast.
He knew what he saw.
And he knew something else.
Whoever that was—
Did not want to be seen.
Only—
Felt.
As he walked back to his car, one question lingered:
Who was it?
He didn't know—
That the answer was closer than he imagined.
And he didn't know—
That what he had just seen—
Was not mere surveillance.
It was a message.
"It wasn't a warning.
It was a reminder—
that the past had finally found him."