“Another murder in our peaceful village,” Inspector Chen sighed, examining the matchbox found beside old Mr. Wang’s body in his dimly lit study. “Third one this month.”

Miss Lin, the village librarian who fancied herself an amateur detective, peered over his shoulder. Her wire-rimmed glasses caught the late afternoon sunlight streaming through dusty windows. “Those matches seem rather peculiar, Inspector.”

“How so?” Chen raised an eyebrow, used to Miss Lin’s occasional insights.

“They’re European matches - see the red phosphorus stripe on the box? We don’t get those around here.” She adjusted her glasses. “And look how precisely they’re arranged, all facing the same direction except one.”

The victim lay slumped over his antique writing desk, an empty teacup beside him. The room smelled of jasmine and something else - something chemical.

“Mr. Wang was quite particular about his tea ritual,” offered Mrs. Zhang, the housekeeper, wringing her apron. “Every afternoon at four, never a minute late.”

“And who knew about this routine?” Chen asked, scribbling in his notepad.

“Everyone in the village, Inspector. Mr. Wang was a creature of habit.”

Miss Lin picked up the teacup, sniffing delicately. “Curious. This doesn’t smell like his usual jasmine.”

“He switched to a new blend last week,” Mrs. Zhang replied. “A gift from his nephew studying in London.”

“The nephew who stands to inherit everything?” Chen looked up sharply.

“Oh no, Inspector,” Miss Lin interrupted, a slight smile playing on her lips. “You’re looking in the wrong direction. The matches tell a different story.”

She walked to the window, gesturing at the general store across the dirt road. “Mr. Li imports European goods. He tried to buy this property last month - said he needed to expand his business. Mr. Wang refused.”

“But the nephew-”

“Is allergic to phosphorus,” Miss Lin finished. “Couldn’t handle matches if his life depended on it. But Mr. Li…” She paused dramatically. “He always carries these exact matches. Says Chinese ones are inferior.”

Chen frowned. “That’s circumstantial at best.”

“Then test the teacup,” Miss Lin suggested. “I believe you’ll find traces of phosphorus - not enough to taste, but enough to kill. And those carefully arranged matches? A signature. Mr. Li was proud of his method, wanted someone to appreciate its cleverness.”

Mrs. Zhang gasped. “But why leave evidence?”

“Pride,” Miss Lin said simply. “The deadliest sin in any murder case.”

Later that evening, after Mr. Li’s arrest and confession, Chen sat with Miss Lin on her porch, watching fireflies dance in the gathering dusk.

“You know,” he said, lighting his cigarette with a common Chinese match, “you should consider joining the force.”

Miss Lin laughed softly. “Oh no, Inspector. I prefer my little village dramas. They’re so much more… intimate.”

The case was solved, but something felt unfinished. Perhaps it was too neat, too perfect - like those matches aligned in their box. But in their small village, people preferred neat endings to messy truths. And sometimes, Miss Lin reflected, watching Chen’s match flicker and die, that was enough.