It all started a week ago.

I still remember, that morning, when I opened the box, my heart stopped beating.

The cyanotic face, the dark red hands, the crimson eyes,

stared at me from inside the open box.

Curling up in the box was my lover,

when I found him,

he had already lost all signs of life.

The vomit all over his body and the bloodstains on the box lid,

recorded his agony before death.

Call 120, send to the hospital, the doctors pronounced death.

I lifted the white cloth in front of me, despite the people around me trying to stop me, I leaned over him and burst into tears.

My husband had his eyes closed, a faint smile on his lips, with traces of blood seeping out, as if mocking me:

"Your tears are too fake, others may not see it, but I can't be fooled."

I responded in my heart:

"Of course, I have to put on a show for the people around us, after all, they don't know, your death was entirely self-inflicted."

I snuck a glance outside the door, the police had already arrived.

I cried even louder, until I fainted.

Because I needed some time,

some time to calm down, to sort out clues, to prepare for questioning.