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They meet like this for most of the anniversaries. The ritual of it is stabilising, a lynchpin fastening them to the ever-moving world, a world already beginning to forget. Like a scar, the mark Kira left on history is permanent, but as flesh knits over the wound, so does time blur the public’s memory.
There was a time when every TV bulletin, paper stand, and computer screen was flooded with ‘Kira-Kira-Kira’ – even as the world grew used to the new order, he still remained on people’s lips, always – but these days the presence of his name is notable, rather than its absence. Even that strange business with the so-called ‘C-Kira’ dropped out of the news cycle within a month.
Is it healing or complacency? Perhaps if people knew the full story, all of it, things might be different; then again, they might not. You creatures are so disappointingly short-sighted, Rem had said once. None of them wants to admit that she had often been on the money when it came to human nature.
It’s not easy to be an island of knowledge in a sea of blissful ignorance. Company helps, and so on that bitter November day the four of them – Aizawa, Matsuda, Ide, Mogi – meet in the Aoyama Cemetery rather than spending the day alone, or worse, with people who don’t understand. Today, the Chief has been dead five years.
Matsuda fumbles with his umbrella – it’s been raining heavily all day, which seems appropriate – and blinks at the golden rays piercing the lead-grey clouds.
“It’s stopped.”
And so it has. In the sudden stillness, the bright musk of wet earth fills their noses, and the birds start to sing again; first one, then another, and then dozens, a symphony for the audience of graves. The four men stand and listen for a while. Then they set off, passing rows and rows and rows of bare trees and silent stones, searching for the one marked ‘Yagami’.
They walk in total silence. That isn’t out of the ordinary for three of the group, but the absence of one voice in particular is jarring. The case – if you can call such an ordeal merely a case – has made Matsuda a better policeman, but the others miss his constant, then-exasperating chatter, now too often replaced with a haunted solemnity.
Ide looks at Matsuda’s clouded face with concern, brushes his hand slightly with his own when nobody’s looking. They’d arrived together, of course; they’ve been ‘roommates’ for the last few years, and Ide, ever the professional, had transferred out to the Info-Communications Bureau. After all, he’s always disapproved of dating coworkers. It’s not exactly a secret, but the group doesn’t really talk about it. The real mystery to the other two is how exactly Ide managed to get Matsuda on board with the no-PDA policy they seem to have going on.
Aizawa doesn’t really know what to make of it, but his friends seem happy, which is the most important thing, really. Besides, all the guys have been a huge support through his divorce, so he can hardly pass judgement in return. On Mogi’s part, he doesn’t think anything could ruffle him anymore, but even before he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. Live and let live, Mogi’s always said. Or thought to himself, at least.
They reach the Yagami grave at last. As they gather around, each reflecting on their own memories of the Chief, there’s another presence, unspoken, unwanted. He is buried there too. Somehow it makes the betrayal cut deeper: Light’s ashes mingling with those of the father he destroyed. But of course the world doesn’t know what he really was, not even Sachiko and Sayu. The official line was that he’d died in action during the Kira investigation, which was technically true.
Aizawa gently lays down the bunch of peonies on the rain-slick stone. Sachiko had asked for them to bring some; apparently the Chief had been especially fond of the softly blushing blooms, a detail he had certainly never shared with the Task Force. Aizawa smiles a little as he pictures the Chief’s flustered expression, desperately papering over sentimentality with faux-stoicism, like the time Sachiko’s cute little note had fluttered out of his bento box.
It’s a shame the surviving Yagamis aren’t here to lay the flowers. To be fair, they do live all the way in Shimane, where Sachiko’s side of the family comes from, but the distance isn’t that great. Even after five years, they just can’t face it. No-one can blame them for that.
They stand there for a long time. The sun is getting low in the sky, its light taking on the richness of sunset.
“It’s getting late…” says Aizawa reluctantly. They can hardly stay out here all night, but on days like this he hates to return to his dark, empty apartment.
They say their final goodbyes and begin trudging towards the cemetery’s exit. The silence is heavier now, full of memories and regrets and questions that nobody will ever be able to answer.
When they reach the cusp of the city streets, Mogi clears his throat. “Dinner at mine? Already cleared it with the wife. I’ve got this great shogayaki recipe.”
“Oh, I like the sound of that!” says Matsuda, perking up. “I’m so sick of curry all the time.”
Ide rolls his eyes. “It’ll be a nice change to eat without the fire alarm going off.”
“I assume that was Matsuda’s turn to cook?” says Aizawa, smirking.
“Hey!”
“Oh, Mogi, how’s little Haru?” asks Aizawa, as the other two start bickering behind them.
“He’s growing so fast, I can hardly keep up,” says Mogi, smiling fondly.
Aizawa laughs. “Yeah, kids tend to do that.”
As street-lights blink into life, four men walk the streets of Tokyo, sharing stories old and new under a purple-pink sky. With the balm of remembrance soothing old hurts, they await the promise of good food, and laughter, and people who understand.
Life, after everything they’ve been through, persists in going on.