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　　陈默第一次见到周谨川，是在城西那座几乎废弃的天主教堂里。

　　那天下着小雨，她和哥哥陈强追着一条线索穿过大半个城区，最后停在这座爬满藤蔓的老建筑前。陈强推开门的时候，腐朽的木头发出一声沉闷的呻吟。彩绘玻璃早已破碎，只剩下几片残存的蓝色和红色，像愈合不了的伤口。

　　周谨川跪在第三排的长椅前。

　　他没有回头，甚至没有动一下，仿佛早就知道有人会来，仿佛等了很久。雨水从破败的穹顶漏下来，打湿了他的肩膀，他却浑然不觉。那只手搭在椅背上——修长，苍白，指节分明——陈默盯着那只手看了很久，久到陈强碰了碰她的胳膊。

　　“周谨川？”陈强开口，声音在空荡的教堂里回响。

　　他终于转过头来。

　　陈默后来怎么也想不起来那天周谨川穿的什么衣服，想不起来他说了什么话，想不起来自己是怎么走出那座教堂的。她只记得那双眼睛——黑得像没有底，安静得像死过很多次，却在看向她的时候，微微闪了一下。

　　像一只被雨淋湿的狗。

　　“你们来了。”他说。声音很轻，轻到几乎被雨声盖住。可陈默听见了。

　　那天回去的路上，陈强问她：“你觉得他可信吗？”

　　陈默没有回答。她把车窗摇下来，让雨打在脸上。她想，那双眼睛她见过。在某个案卷里，在某个深夜陈强偶尔提起的只言片语里，在某个她从不敢细问的故事里。

　　后来她才知道，周谨川每周三都会去那座教堂。不是做礼拜，不是祷告，只是坐着。一坐就是一整个下午。教堂的神父说，他从三年前开始来，风雨无阻。从不多话，从不解释，只是坐着。

　　像在等人。

　　像在等一个永远不会来的人。

　　陈默没有告诉陈强，那个周三之后，她也开始去教堂。不进去，就站在对面的梧桐树下，看着那扇破旧的门。看着他来，看着他走。有时候下雨，有时候出太阳。他从来不看两边，从来不停留，只是低着头，沿着长满青苔的石板路离开。

　　直到有一天，他停在她面前。

　　“你站了很久了。”他说。

　　陈默张了张嘴，什么都说不出来。她这才发现，他的眼睛下面有一道很浅的疤，几乎看不出来，但在很近的距离里，像一道裂开的冰。

　　“陈警官的妹妹，”他说，嘴角动了动，不知道算不算笑，“你们长得很像。”

　　他转身走了。

　　陈默站在原地，雨又下起来了。她想喊住他，想问他很多事，想问他在等谁，想问他的手为什么总在发抖，想问他还记不记得那只小黑狗。

　　可她只是站在那里，看着他的背影消失在雨里。

　　后来陈强问她去教堂干什么，她说路过。陈强看了她一眼，没说话。那个眼神陈默懂——那是哥哥的眼神，也是陈警官的眼神。在心疼和警告之间，有一道很窄的缝隙。

　　可她不在乎。

　　因为下个周三，她又去了。

　　The Church

　　The first time Chen Mo saw Zhou Jinchuan was at the almost-abandoned Catholic church on the west side of the city.

　　It was drizzling that day. She and her brother Chen Qiang had followed a lead across most of the city, finally stopping before the old building covered in creeping vines. When Chen Qiang pushed open the door, the rotting wood let out a dull groan. The stained glass had long since shattered, leaving only a few remnants of blue and red, like wounds that wouldn't heal.

　　Zhou Jinchuan was kneeling before the third row of pews.

　　He didn't turn around, didn't even move, as if he'd known someone would come, as if he'd been waiting a long time. Rainwater leaked through the broken dome, soaking his shoulders, but he seemed not to notice. One hand rested on the back of the pew—slender, pale, knuckles pronounced. Chen Mo stared at that hand for a long time, so long that Chen Qiang had to nudge her arm.

　　"Zhou Jinchuan?" Chen Qiang's voice echoed through the empty church.

　　Finally, he turned.

　　Later, Chen Mo couldn't remember what Zhou Jinchuan had worn that day, couldn't remember what he'd said, couldn't remember how she'd walked out of that church. She only remembered his eyes—black like bottomless wells, quiet as if they'd died many times over, yet when they looked at her, they flickered, just slightly.

　　Like a dog caught in the rain.

　　"You came," he said. His voice was so soft it was almost drowned out by the rain. But Chen Mo heard it.

　　On the way back that day, Chen Qiang asked her, "Do you think he's trustworthy?"

　　Chen Mo didn't answer. She rolled down the window and let the rain hit her face. She thought, I've seen those eyes before. In some case file, in fragments of stories Chen Qiang occasionally mentioned late at night, in some tale she'd never dared to ask about.

　　Later, she learned that Zhou Jinchuan came to that church every Wednesday. Not for Mass, not for prayer—just to sit. An entire afternoon at a time. The priest said he'd been coming for three years, rain or shine. He never spoke much, never explained. Just sat.

　　Like he was waiting for someone.

　　Like he was waiting for someone who would never come.

　　Chen Mo didn't tell Chen Qiang that after that Wednesday, she started going to the church too. She wouldn't go inside—just stood under the sycamore tree across the street, watching that worn-down door. Watching him come. Watching him leave. Sometimes it rained, sometimes the sun came out. He never looked around, never lingered—just walked away with his head down along the moss-covered stone path.

　　Until one day, he stopped in front of her.

　　"You've been standing here a long time," he said.

　　Chen Mo opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Only then did she notice the faint scar beneath his eye—barely visible, but up close, it looked like cracked ice.

　　"Officer Chen's sister," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that might have been a smile. "You look alike."

　　He turned and walked away.

　　Chen Mo stood there as the rain started again. She wanted to call out to him, wanted to ask him so many things—who he was waiting for, why his hands always trembled, whether he still remembered that little black dog.

　　But she just stood there, watching his figure disappear into the rain.

　　Later, when Chen Qiang asked why she went to the church, she said she was just passing by. He looked at her but said nothing. That look Chen Mo understood—it was her brother's look, and also Officer Chen's. In the narrow space between concern and warning, there was a fine line.

　　But she didn't care.

　　Because next Wednesday, she went again.