Novel

The city is silent in the rain, and a dull thud approached Roman's window just like the footprints at the crime scene. A rare photograph, "The Last Shot," has disappeared from the gallery's archives—the very thing that could have revealed the truth about an old official scandal. Her partner, Vy, is with Roman.

"Where's the photo?" Roman asked when she opened the door to our car.

"It's not that simple in the gallery," you replied, starting the recorder. "The cameras only recorded the frame disappearing. But there was a signature-style mark left on the glass—the number 42 and traces of paint, as if someone had tried to erase it layer by layer."

"So someone knew what they were doing," Roman said. "And who's this guy that would take risks for him?"

We reached the gallery entrance. Roman stepped inside and saw a tiny imprint on the windowsill, as if someone had tried to leave a trace of their memory.

"Let me look at the exhibits," you said, walking along the display cases while he took fingerprints from the glass. The photograph was ordinary—a portrait of a young woman, her face elusive, but her eyes seemed to hold a story that someone didn't want us to see.

"Did you see anything else?" you asked as we approached the back wall of the room. An empty frame hung there, behind which hid a small door.

“The door is not for visitors,” he noted.