On August 24, 2020, my father passed away with his greatest regret.

Before he took his last breath, he held my hand, trying to say something, but was too weak to make a sound.

He died with his eyes open.

On the seventh day after my father's death, a stranger knocked on my door.

The man was wearing a worn-out short-sleeved shirt, a safety helmet almost covering his entire face, and beads of sweat hanging from his chin, as if he had rushed over from a construction site.

He claimed to be a friend of my father's and came to pay his respects.

Until he left after burning incense, the man never took off his helmet.

The next day, while organizing my father's belongings at the police station, I saw the man again.

Officer Zhang said that he was the fugitive my father had been hunting for his entire life, who had evaded the police for twenty years, but had turned himself in the day before.