Midnight fog swallowed the cobblestone path. A clock struck thirteen times, wrong. Silence followed, thick and suffocating. Then, a scream tore through darkness. Short. Sharp. Suddenly silenced forever. Footsteps fled, light and hurried. A single red glove lay abandoned. Blood soaked into the ancient drain. Wind whispered secrets to stone gargoyles. No moon witnessed what occurred. Candles flickered in distant upper windows. A dog howled, lonely and frightened. Police whistles pierced the shattered calm. Doors cracked open, curious and cautious. A body lay cold on flagstones. Neck twisted unnaturally, eyes wide. Pocket watch stopped at eleven fifty-five. No killer seen, no clues obvious. Yet a faint scent lingered—jasmine. And a note clutched in hand. "Forgive me," it read, in script. Handwriting familiar to one detective. His breath caught, heart skipping. Memories surged—her smile, her voice. Impossible. She died years ago. Or so he always believed.