The rain outside fell harder, as though the sky itself were laughing at the thought.
I stood in front of the small hotel mirror for a long time, water still dripping from my coat onto the floorboards. My reflection looked exactly as it always had — older, tired, dark-haired, with lines etched around the eyes from too many nights like this one. Nothing luminous. Nothing special. Just Elias Crowe, the detective who had come on holiday and found himself chasing smoke.
I turned away from the mirror and sat back down at the desk. The maid's description from Brussels and the single red-orange hair strand lay there under the lamp. I picked up the hair again, turning it slowly between my fingers. It still caught the light in that strange way, glowing faintly even in the dim room. But the more I stared at it, the less certain I became.
Was this really proof?
Or just a single strand of hair that could have come from anywhere?
I spent the rest of that night going through every scrap of paper I had collected. The Brussels transcript. The Cardiff servant statements. The shortened newspaper articles. I read them until the words started to blur together. Every description of the man with the red-orange hair came from someone who had seen him for only a few minutes. A housemaid. A gardener. A diplomat's maid. No one had seen him for long. No one had a photograph. No one had even heard a full name.
By morning my eyes were burning and my head ached. The rain had eased into a cold drizzle, but the streets outside still looked like black glass. I forced myself to eat something at the hotel breakfast table, then headed back to the police station.
Inspector Davies was waiting for me again. He didn't even pretend to be polite this time.
"Crowe," he said, folding his arms. "You're still here. Still asking the same questions. Still carrying that piece of hair around like it's some holy relic. The lads are starting to wonder if you're seeing things that aren't there."
I laid the maid's description on his desk for the third time.
"Read it again," I said. "The details match across two countries. The hair. The coat. The way he moves. The way people relax when they see him. This isn't imagination."
Davies barely glanced at the paper. "Convenient, isn't it? A killer who appears, says a few soft words, and vanishes while the rain washes everything away. And somehow only you keep finding these tiny threads that no one else can see."
He leaned forward. "Lang is dead. Suicide in his cell. Case closed as far as the higher-ups are concerned. You should go back to London. Get some rest. This obsession isn't healthy."
I left the station without arguing. The drizzle met me outside and quickly turned into proper rain again. I walked the streets of Cardiff for hours, coat collar up, hands deep in my pockets. I stopped at every place the stranger might have passed through — the train station, the cafés near the cathedral, the quiet alleys behind the big houses. I showed the description to shopkeepers, cab drivers, anyone who might have noticed a tall man with striking red-orange hair.
Most of them shook their heads.
One old woman at a tea shop narrowed her eyes at me. "You keep asking about this red-haired fellow. Are you sure he's real, love? Or are you just seeing what you want to see?"
Her words stuck with me the rest of the day.
By evening I was back in my hotel room, soaked through, staring at the same pieces of paper. The red-orange hair strand still lay on the desk. I picked it up and held it to the light. It looked exactly as it had the first time I found it on the carriage door in Brussels. But now I kept wondering — could it have come from somewhere else? A coat lining? A wig? A trick of the light?
I sat there until the small hours, listening to the rain. The silence around the case was growing louder than any new murder could have been. No fresh bodies. No new witnesses. Only the same fading descriptions and the same washed-away scenes.
Was I chasing a man who had never existed?
Or was I the only one still willing to look?
I finally slept for a few restless hours. When I woke, the rain had stopped for the first time in days. The streets outside looked almost ordinary in the weak morning light. I dressed and went straight to the Western Mail offices, hoping Victor or Eleanor might have uncovered something new.
Victor was at his desk, looking exhausted. He glanced up when I walked in.
"Crowe," he said quietly. "You're still here."
I nodded. "Anything new from Brussels?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. The story's being buried deeper every day. My editor told me this morning to drop it entirely. 'Public interest has moved on,' he said. Eleanor's boss gave her the same order. She's… not taking it well."
He didn't elaborate, but the worry in his voice was clear.
I showed him the maid's description again. "Tell me honestly, Victor. Does any of this feel real to you anymore? Or am I just seeing patterns in the rain?"
Victor looked at the paper for a long moment. Then he sighed.
"I don't know anymore. The details match. The hair. The coat. The way people describe his voice. But there's no proof. No photograph. No name. No one has seen him since Brussels. It's starting to feel like… smoke."
He lowered his voice. "Some of the other reporters are starting to joke about it. 'Crowe's imaginary red-haired man.' They think you're cracking under the pressure of the holiday that turned into a nightmare."
I left the newspaper office with the words ringing in my ears. The rain had started again, light but steady. I walked back toward the hotel, every step splashing through puddles that reflected only my own tired face.
No burning hair.
No perfect smile.
Just me.
And the growing, uncomfortable feeling that I was the only person left who still believed in something that might not exist at all.