Once a world-renowned actor in the 1970s, Alexander Hale—known by his stage name Sterling Vale—vanished without a trace. After his disappearance, it was as if he had been erased from history, as though he had never existed.
But one day, Claire Whitmore stumbled upon an old photo… in it, she stood close beside Alexander Hale, smiling as if they were longtime lovers.
She was certain of one thing—she had never met him before.
So how could such a photo exist?
---
It was two o'clock in the afternoon. Claire sat in a café, her chin resting in her hand, staring blankly out the window, stirring a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. She looked utterly uninterested, even bored, and nearly let out a yawn.
The man sitting across from her had been trying to hold a conversation, bringing up topic after topic. But the woman before him remained silent and indifferent.
Chuckling helplessly, the man finally asked,
"Miss Whitmore, are you not interested in talking to me at all?"
Claire turned her head at last, and replied plainly,
"Mr. Carter, when you asked me out, I told you upfront—I'm not looking to get married, and I don't want to go on blind dates. You said you didn't mind, which is the only reason I agreed to come."
Lena Carter offered a small, bitter smile. He'd thought she was just being polite—not truly uninterested.
"Miss Whitmore," he said sincerely, "I admit, I was careless. I really do like you. And I thought… well, I thought you might not dislike me either."
Lena Carter was a polished, overseas-educated gentleman—well-spoken, refined, and attractive. By all logic, he shouldn't have been so easily dismissed, especially not by someone like Claire Whitmore, who spent her days working among rugged men.
But Claire didn't care. She had zero interest in him, and she made it crystal clear—leaving not even the faintest possibility for romantic ambiguity.
Defeated, Lena asked curiously,
"Is it because you already like someone else?"
"No. Where would you get that idea?"
Claire scooped up a big spoonful of strawberry mousse and stuffed it into her mouth, thoroughly enjoying it without the slightest concern for appearances.
Lena observed her for a while and said,
"You just… you seem distracted. Like you're thinking about someone when you stare off like that."
"Really?" Claire frowned. It wasn't the first time she'd heard that.
People often asked her if she was heartbroken when they saw her daydreaming.
She always wanted to roll her eyes at that.
Heartbroken? She had been single since birth. Never even had a crush. Where would the heartbreak come from?
At most, she sometimes just felt a strange emptiness inside…
Lena still wanted to continue the conversation, but Claire received a call from the station—an urgent case had come up. She left without hesitation.
Lena could only watch her leave and sigh, regretfully.
---
At the station, Claire learned that a real estate company had unearthed a buried car while preparing land for a new villa development. The crew had stopped work immediately and called the police.
With assistance from law enforcement, they carefully excavated the vehicle.
The car was confirmed to be a Shanghai brand sedan from over 30 years ago, buried beneath the soil for decades.
At first, the police suspected foul play. But after consulting geologists and local historians, it appeared to be a tragic accident. The land had once been near the foot of a mountain, prone to mudslides during heavy rainfall. If a car happened to pass through during such a storm, it could indeed have been buried alive.
Claire left those investigations to the experts and focused on the skeletal remains found inside the car.
Preliminary findings revealed the victim was male, roughly 30 years old. No signs of trauma—so homicide could be ruled out for now.
The only items found in the car were a rotted wallet, a set of rusted keys, a vintage music album, and a few old photographs—most of which had decayed beyond recognition.
Eventually, authorities concluded it was a decades-old mudslide accident and released the news publicly in hopes of locating any surviving family.
Claire glanced at the news article when it was published. Her brow furrowed.
They'd captured her in one of the photos.
Though blurry and off to the side, you could still tell it was her, holding a phone to her ear.
But the photo was already out there. Nothing she could do.
---
A few days later, just before the end of her shift, Claire got a call from the evidence department.
"We found something interesting. You'll want to see this."
She arrived to find an officer handing her an old photo, sealed in a plastic bag.
"It was tucked inside the CD case from the car. We missed it before. Take a look—something about it feels off."
Claire took the bag, her eyes scanning the yellowed image.
It was an indoor scene—clearly European in style, likely from the last century. A man in a white shirt sat elegantly on a vintage couch, legs crossed, holding a white cat in his arms. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, and his eyes were soft, almost gentle. His features were aristocratic—handsome and refined.
Behind him stood a woman in a trench coat, arms crossed, a sly and confident smile on her face. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Claire blinked.
Was it just her imagination, or did that woman look exactly like her?
The officer chuckled.
"Detective Whitmore, don't you think she looks a lot like you?"
"…What the—" Claire stared at the photo, stunned. It wasn't just a resemblance. It was her. Exactly her.
"Take it. Maybe it'll help identify the victim."
Claire nodded, still frowning deeply. She wasn't naïve enough to think it was truly her in the photo, but… how could someone look so identical?
If that woman were still alive, she'd be an old lady by now… right?
She thanked the officer, took the photo, and drove home.
---
Claire still lived with her parents, who constantly fretted over her love life.
"You're 27 and haven't dated yet. Isn't it time to think about settling down?"
Claire rolled her eyes. She was healthy, attractive, and capable—why should she worry?
Her parents would nod in agreement, only to follow up with:
"So when do you plan to get married? We'll start making arrangements."
"…"
Claire surrendered. Changing the subject was the only escape.
That night, after a shower, she lay in bed staring at the photo again. The more she looked, the more certain she became—that woman wasn't just similar.
It was her.
Same posture. Same expression. Even the coat looked familiar.
On impulse, Claire leapt up, rummaging through her closet. She pulled out a trench coat and jeans that matched the photo almost perfectly.
Aside from the aged quality of the photo, the resemblance was uncanny.
Unable to shake the feeling, Claire drifted off with the photo still in her hands.
---
Around 2 a.m., she was jolted awake by the sound of a television.
Half-asleep, she wandered downstairs.
The living room TV was on—but no one was there.
Perplexed, she moved closer to turn it off.
But what she saw on the screen made her freeze.
It was an old black-and-white war film, dated 1975. The image was shaky but vivid, the dialogue formal and precise.
Claire sat down slowly, captivated. The film felt real, almost too real.
She poured herself a glass of water, intending to watch just a few minutes.
Then she saw him.
A man in uniform appeared on screen, wearing a commanding cloak and carrying the weight of presence.
It was him.
The same man from the photo.