Cameron Highlands, Malaysia. A cool, green sanctuary carved out of the tropical heat, a relic of the British Empire. The air was crisp, the tea plantations rolled like green waves, and in the gardens of the colonial bungalows, English roses bloomed, defiant of the equator.
The afternoon at the ‘Moonlight’ bungalow, owned by friends from Singapore, was filled with a gentle, post-lunch drowsiness. The scent of tea lingered in the air. A satisfied silence. His friends were taking their afternoon naps.
James Harrison Wilson Thompson—Jim to his friends—rose quietly from his chair on the porch. He was 61 years old.
His eyes were fixed on the path that began just beside the bungalow. It led into the jungle. An invitation. A challenge. Mist drifted between the trees like a living thing, blurring the edges of the world.
He said nothing. He left his wallet, his passport, even his favorite cigarettes on the table. He was dressed as if for a short stroll around the neighborhood. But his back, as he walked away, held a kind of resolve his friends could not comprehend. It was the quiet, certain gait of a predator roused from slumber, setting out to inspect its territory.
A Siamese cat, curled in a corner of the porch, lifted its head. Its sapphire-blue eyes watched Jim as he paused for a moment at the jungle’s edge.
He did not look back.
He took a single step into the mist. The green curtain swallowed him whole.
And the world would never see him again.
No one yet knew that this one step was the end of a brilliant life, and the beginning of a mystery that would never be solved.
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