In 2003, at the dawn of a new century, my father and I started new lives in the same city, each in our own way. I majored in biotechnology at college and spent years working at a research institute, staring into microscopes and dealing with microorganisms every day. My father, using the identity of a deceased coworker, got a job at a metallurgy plant where he handled strong acids — a job that allowed him to habitually erode his fingerprints. We communicated under false names, and once a letter was read, it was burned.

Considering that Detective Evans would still check in on me from time to time, we soon abandoned regular mail and switched to a less conspicuous method of exchanging information: we chose a fixed seat in a café. My father would visit in the morning, hiding a letter under the seat, and I would retrieve it in the afternoon while having coffee.

Occasionally, we arranged to go hiking together. When we arrived, we would exchange a distant glance before heading up the mountain. I could no longer hold my father's hand as I had when I was a child; instead, we maintained the distance of strangers.

And so, our lives continued for several years.

Then, in 2007, something unexpected happened. During one of our hikes, I felt it again — that still, dreadful gaze.

The gaze of the goat.

My heartbeat surged, and a cold chill crept up my spine. I forced myself to remain calm and looked back. The trail was crowded with people, but I saw no goat — only Detective Evans in plain clothes. He was walking unhurriedly, his gaze as deep and steady as ever.

He was following me. Realizing this, I continued on my way, subtly deviating from my original path, deliberately widening the already significant distance between my father and me. I let him climb toward the summit alone.

Evans detected nothing unusual. The moment passed without incident.

But we couldn't stay this cautious forever. My father had been right — it wasn't a long-term solution. He had changed his face, but if you looked closely, his past features were still discernible. He had eroded his fingerprints, but they would grow back. And even if fingerprints could be erased, DNA was an unalterable mark. From the moment my father went missing in 1999, my DNA had been in police records.

I had always understood: until the case was closed, the past would never truly be past.

In 2009, I married Caroline. Not long after, I took her hiking, giving my father the chance to see her from afar. Of course, Caroline knew nothing.

In his next letter, my father wrote that even from a distance, he could tell Caroline was a gentle woman, much like my mother.

He told me he liked his daughter-in-law very much, that the thought made him so happy that he even ordered an extra slice of cake at the café.

I laughed at that letter until tears streamed down my face. I held the paper over a lighter, watching the flames consume the words, the smoke dissolving into the night.

Just wait a little longer, Dad.

It's almost over.

In 2011, the past was finally laid to rest. Detective Evans stopped coming to me.

People who love crime and mystery don't always walk toward good or evil — sometimes, they find a narrow, hidden path in between. I changed careers and became a suspense writer.

On our next hike, Father and I spotted each other from across the crowd. But this time, instead of keeping my distance, I walked straight toward him.

He averted his gaze, only glancing at me briefly before looking away again. But when I got too close — too close for strangers — he panicked. His brow furrowed, and he shot me a warning look before turning to leave.

I stepped forward and grabbed his arm.

"Dad," I said, "it's been too long. The police told me they're done. They're not looking anymore."

Father froze. His lips trembled slightly. "What?"

"It's over. We can now go back to how things used to be."

In 2003, we had parted ways outside the plastic surgery clinic.

Eight years had passed. Only now could we finally stand this close again.

My father was already fifty-seven. Half his hair had turned white. Deep wrinkles lined his face. His hands — scarred and rough from years of erasing his fingerprints — looked even older than he was.

Eight years had felt like an eternity. And yet, at this moment, it was as if someone had hit fast-forward. The man in my memory had been middle-aged. Now, he was an old man before my eyes.

I pulled him into an embrace, my voice breaking. "It's over, Dad. You don't have to live in fear anymore. We can see each other openly now."

That day, I helped him up the mountain, as I once had when I was young.

We met publicly as hiking companions, never addressing each other as father and son, never planning to live together. Too much time had passed — we had built separate lives.

Father took a new job as a bookstore clerk, where he met Aunt Ida. She was a few years younger than him, with silver streaks running through her soft brown hair. She always perched her reading glasses atop her head and could sit in the bookstore's reading nook for a whole day.

They never married, just kept each other company.

Ida had a twenty-five-year-old daughter, Claire. My father looked after her in small ways, and she often visited him. He sent me a Christmas photo of the three of them in one of his letters. The fireplace glowed warmly in the picture. My father sat with an open novel on his lap, reading aloud while Ida knitted wool socks in an armchair. Father told me, Claire had laughed and said they looked like a long-married old couple.

And so, another decade passed.

In the summer of 2021, my father died suddenly of a heart attack, at the age of sixty-seven. Claire arranged his funeral, and I attended as an old friend.

As per his wishes, Father's ashes were scattered atop the mountain.

Standing at the summit, I breathed in the scent of damp earth as the wind rustled through the pines.

We had survived the hardest years. My father should have had more time, should have finally enjoyed true peace.

But I remembered what he told me that day on the mountain:

"I've been living on borrowed time for too long. I was supposed to be dead in the summer of 1999."

That day, I had told him the police gave up on the case. And he had believed me.

What he didn't know was that when a fugitive had been formally charged, the police would never stop looking.

The only reason they weren't searching anymore — was because the case had been solved.

———

I stopped here. My gaze drifted toward the reptile enclosure in the corner of the room.

Caroline said nothing, just staring at me.

"What do you think?" I asked.

Her eyes flickered. "I think it's real."

"Don't get caught up in what's real and what isn't."

"I never knew about any of this," she whispered, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "You said this was just a story. But after we got married, you really did take me hiking. And for a while, you did visit the same café over and over. And you often went hiking alone...All the details match. I believe everthing is true."

Caroline covered her face, her shoulders shaking.

"It's fiction," I murmured, pulling her into my arms. "I just filled in the gaps of my life with something dramatic. It's meant to be immersive. If it bothers you, I won't tell you any more."

"No, you go on," she pushed me away, wiping her tears. Her eyes were cold. "There's still too much left unsaid. Loose threads in the main plot that haven't been tied up in the subtext. Tell me — why was the case closed? What about the bones the police found? Was it that goat?"

"No, how could the police mistake a goat's skeleton for a human. What 'scapegoat' — that's just a religious myth. Tell me, what really happened?"

I looked at her pale face, hesitating. "Do you really want to hear it? I'm afraid you won't be able to handle it."

"You have to tell me."