Chapter Text
The reality is that you will grieve forever. Such were the words of Kübler-Ross.
In the face of loss, especially sudden loss, people tend to overestimate the longevity of intense emotions. Gnawing at their own chest, trying to rip and shred skin, trying to gouge out the lump of flesh and muscles that pump blood and give life, making sure it continued to operate properly because it felt like it ceased to function. The taste of salt on lips, the residue of shed tears, was all that filled their core.
Yet they never consider the aftermath. The long-term. How life moves on afterwards. Even though some prefer to wallow in the tragic beauty of melancholy, anger and denial and sadness wouldn’t last and wouldn’t stay. It’s just not feasible.
What would unexpectedly stay was the third toothbrush that takes up space inside the toothbrush holder on the bathroom sink; the empty chair tucked away with a cushion that gathered lint and dust at the dinner table; the well-worn black karate belt, folded in the far corner of the wardrobe, that could never hope to cinch its master’s waist again.
Those were partly the reasons Shinichi migrated to America. He couldn’t muster the courage to discard these remembrances away, but he also couldn’t muster the courage to confront them. So he crammed all the souvenirs of their warmth in the distant eastern country and abandoned everything there. Shinichi didn’t want to forget. Shinichi didn’t want to remember.
But the reality is that he will grieve forever. The aftermath is often underestimated.
Shinichi noosed the black tie under his collar. He’s grown to reconcile with this lonely pulling motion. It’s not like he wasn’t independent before, but every morning, his mind would recall Ran doing it for him. On pleasant, cheerful days, the fabric would embrace his neck affectionately, straight and tidy. On angry, moody days, he would choke. It was romance. And it was perfect.
He paused before the foyer mirror. He flattened his black lapels, straightened his black sleeve cuffs, smoothed his black canvas, and fastened the black button of his blazer as its two sides clung to each other in the middle. His shirt had an off-white hue. The black briefcase drooped on his left side like an extra appendage, an extra burden that looped around his fingers.
Meanwhile, his right hand juggled a Sherlock-themed backpack, a 24-color crayon set, and a plastic lunchbox he packed with mini sandwiches in the early dawn.
Shinichi’s gaze extended to the toddler propped against the front door, dressed in white sweater and white pants, fidgeting with his white shoes. This was the only memento he dared not to leave behind, despite anything.
“Everything alright over there?” said Shinichi. “Shoes feel small?”
“Oh. Hm. Yes. They do. My feet have gotten bigger.”
Shinichi crouched and flexed the bicep of his less-exerted limb, offering the three-year-old an uncommon chance to sit on the crook of his arm. A smirk formed at the father’s lips. He lifted, uncurled his back, and brought the little boy close. The blues of their eyes met at the top.
“New shoes after preschool. Deal?”
“Deal! I’ll endure this suffering for today.”
“Tough one, aren’t you?” he chuckled. “We’re all set, then. Say goodbye to Mom, Conan!”
The boy waved energetically at nothing. “Goodbye, Mom!” But he liked to imagine she was still standing there, seeing them off every day. So Shinichi neglected his reservations and played along, entertaining the child.
Having children seldomly crossed his mind before he married at twenty-two. He never saw himself to be a great father. As a detective whose only skills revolved around practicality, he had only conceived parenthood as a means for his domestication. Ran, the contrary. She worked as a pediatric nurse. And even without her career, taking care of children and tendering her emotional empathy had always been one of her strengths. Shinichi could never fill the role of a parent as wonderfully as Ran could.
After marriage, however, was different. Shinichi stood very much unprepared for the eventuality of his mental shift that accompanied every new father, following the arrival of this creature they soon named after the boy who was last seen during their high school years. His pupils turned into hearts when he cradled the product of their love, wrapped in swaddling blanket, for the first time. His newborn’s name fleeted his lips in a soft whisper. Conan.
Present day, Conan was the only remnant of Ran he brought along when he had forsaken everything. Up until six months ago, when Shinichi still resided in Japan, he despised everything. Ran passed away. Her death aired on the news, and her funeral was crowded with family, friends, and regrettably, fans. Horrid fans of the great detective who couldn’t refrain themselves from causing an inappropriate stir at her viewing, committal, and reception.
Even half a year after her passing, Shinichi was still bombarded with interviews, paparazzi-tabloid attention, and widower proposals. There was no need to slap his face with the harsh verity, after her soul had already ascended to and passed the gates of heaven.
Condolences, it must be hard, hang in there, give a statement on how your wife’s death affected your line of work, do you plan on remarrying? His fists would tense up involuntarily each time he tolerated considerate and inconsiderate remarks. And a new title was coined, the Great Tragic Detective. Where was the tact?
Moving to a country where people lacked the knowledge to remind him of his late spouse, he flew to the States and settled in New York City. At the very least, his blooming child was there to have interesting conversations with during a quarter of his commute.
Shinichi parked across the road from Sunlight Learning Center, a preschool situated in the Upper East Side neighborhood of Manhattan. He exited the car and watched the blossoms of cherry and magnolia petals drift in the air, brushing against Conan as he bounced from the car seat onto the pavement. For the past six months, this is the detective’s daily routine in America before heading to his field office downtown.
With gentle flicks, Shinichi shaved off any signs of spring season that inadvertently adhered to the cashmere of his son’s sweater. They walked side by side, gliding past the intricate wrought-iron gate and beneath the welcoming lintel, approaching the brownstone building.
“Good morning, Mr. Kudo! Conan!” The preschool teacher, in her early twenties with messy blonde ponytail, waited at the front door. She knelt down, trying for a hug from the white-clad chap. “How is our sweet Conan today?”
“Good morning, Miss Tanner,” said Shinichi. “Sorry for always being late.”
He glanced at his Seiko Prospex; ten o’clock. Damn, two hours tardy today. It would soon be the third time he’d clocked in late to work this month, too. And it’s only the third of April. If Shinichi wasn’t who he was, wasn’t as competent as he was, he’d get fired yesteryear.
“No, no, it’s not a problem!” Her forefinger slid a lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s always a pleasure to have you here, Mr. Kudo.” She plucked the little boy close after he refused to budge. “And Conan, too, of course!”
“Ah, stay away! You’ll get fresh lipstick on my shirt, vile woman!”
Shinichi wanted to smack, but his disciplinary hands were occupied. “Conan, be nice! You can always decline her politely, can’t you? Besides, it’s just lipstick. Wipe it off with dish soap later.” He wondered where his kid had expanded his English vocabulary from.
“…Fine. Stay away. Please.”
He groaned at his son’s lack of apology. Being called a vile woman by a child could no doubt serve as a traumatic experience for young girls like Miss Tanner, particularly when they’re breaking a leg to bond with said child. Surrounded by kids daily, she would know how brutally honest they can get. So that might actually be Conan’s true impression of her. How unfortunate.
Well, Conan himself hadn’t always been the most receptive fellow. His past nannies who resigned after being psychologically tormented by his defiant and not-so-cute nature could attest to this fact.
He turned towards the preschool teacher, who hung her head low, dejected. “Sorry about that, Miss Tanner. Please don’t take it to heart. It looks like Conan here got carried away by whatever mature shows he watched outside my supervision.”
“It’s alright, Mr. Kudo…” she said. “Sorry, Conan. You must be cold, right? Let’s go inside…”
“Not really. It’s only eighteen degrees Cel—um, sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit. But okay.”
Miss Tanner received the backpack, crayons, and lunchbox well, and took Conan’s hand to usher him inside. Before Shinichi could thank her, wish her the best, say goodbye, and exchange other insincere this-and-thats, his face encountered the mahogany door as it closed on him. He sighed.
He slipped his now-free hand into his pocket, reaching for his keys, as he sauntered back to his silver Skyline GT-R mantled in the shadow of florescent trees and brick townhouses.
Succeeding Conan’s birth, Shinichi and Ran would regularly be greeted with surprises. At six months of age, Conan’s vigor would urge them to purchase a walker earlier than anticipated. At eight months, he took his first unassisted steps. At fourteen, he could speak simple sentences, and seven months after, if prompted, he could form complex ones. At twenty-seven, he solved basic multiplication and division. And at thirty-two, he completed reading the Japanese translation of A Study in Scarlet. His summary was rudimentary at best, but he was also barely three.
Now, Conan neared four years old. To think he’d finally notice Miss Tanner’s recently applied lipstick… Then again, today marked her first attempt to hug him at the doorstep, so perhaps he had noticed all along. It’s just that he didn’t care enough to mention it until it threatened to stain his clothes. What a fearsome kid.
“Fresh lipstick, huh.”
As the ignition key turned in his fingers’ cadence, starting his car with the grumble of an inline-six, his phone vibrated against his leg and rang on cue. Could this be the first time he’d face consequences for his constant tardiness? Perhaps not. Because the caller was his quote-unquote partner at work, who had a knack for arriving even later than himself. Shinichi stepped on the clutch and shifted into first gear as his vehicle blended into traffic. The call connected to the car’s aftermarket Bluetooth system.
“Morning, Kudo,” he said, sneaking a yawn. “Sorry, I think I’m running late again. Anyway, have you read the case files they emailed us yesterday?”
FBI special agent—Raziel Greyson. A contemporary of Shinichi, at plus-minus twenty-six years old. But much like Shinichi’s youthfulness, Raziel’s unwrinkled clean-shaven face and lustrous brunet bangs didn’t strike him as a year above twenty.
Avoid digressing; the case files Raziel referred to detailed the homicide of Dr. Charles Farray, the chief scientific officer of Veasna Pharmaceuticals, a pharmaceutical company in Westchester. Stabbed to death in his BMW yesterday. Shinichi had indeed skimmed through the files last night. His photographic memory remembered every detail.
Though he’d prefer to spend the remaining drive listening to Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 rather than regurgitating blobs of data from cache.
“Not really, haven’t gotten the time to check my emails. What about you, Greyson?”
“Lie. Can you give me a quick rundown? You know, before our scheduled meeting.”
“Oi.”
Caught red-handed immediately. Shinichi wondered why he even bothered lying. Besides the consistency of being last to arrive, Raziel Greyson also possessed another bizarre skill: distinguishing falsehood from truth. At best, it was invaluable in interrogating and pressuring suspects. At worst, it was infuriating. Nevertheless, this aptitude was most likely the reason why the FBI retained him for all this time, despite his lack of punctuality and sloth-like indolence.
Raziel’s talent, bordering on the supernatural, brought to mind a certain girl who could inexplicably sense the presence of Black Organization members. Shinichi last saw her eight years ago, when he was eighteen. He exhaled his thoughts away, disappointed in himself for thinking about her again.
Shinichi hovered over the red hang up button. “Fine, then. We’ll meet fifteen minutes earlier than scheduled, but I’m swinging by the office to clock in first—I’ll brief you later.” His terminating tap was as decisive as the resolve to cut off his partner attempting to speak over the call’s abrupt end.
He breathed into the steering wheel, resting his head on it, already accustomed to Manhattan’s traffic timings. Kudo Shinichi was not a smoker, unlike his father. He knew better than to plummet himself into an addiction of tar and carcinogenic metals. Although over the past year, the allure of stress-relieving nicotine had him whisper the cigarette brands assorted on any convenience store’s cashier-side shelf.
Still, Shinichi turned towards his phone and played Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 to drown out his idle engine and the muffled honks. A symphony he had grown weary of listening, but it’s occupied his mind recently. Its Russian title, Патетическая, would stand to mean passionate or emotional, explicitly not arousing pity. A word reflective of a touch of concurrent suffering.
Yet, the direct, naked translation of the word: pathetic. How fitting of his situation. All Shinichi ever did to mourn Ran’s death was run away pathetically. Even now, he felt like running away from his current case. Mournfully pathetic.
He recalled the pharmaceutical company he was bound to visit today. Veasna Pharmaceuticals. He pinched the bridge of his nose and an improved oxygen flow travelled through his nasal passage. There was a reason he felt the intense urge to run away, once again. Eight years had passed since Shinichi last fell out of contact with Haibara Ai.
However, it wasn’t like he completely stopped trying to stay informed about her whereabouts. He kept tabs. And even Ran didn’t know about this.
And based on his monitoring, Haibara, the girl whose name would roll off his tongue effortlessly, had career-hopped several times before finally settling as one of the lead R&D scientists in a pharmaceutical company in the United States. Indeed, the pharmaceutical company, in which its CSO was the victim of homicide, in which Shinichi was bound to visit, had employed Haibara Ai—or rather, Miyano Shiho.
Loneliness from his time spent abroad crippled him. Having only met English-speaking strangers who knew him, but not understand him, surround his new life. His son was his sole confidant, and even he would constantly remind Shinichi of the wife he no longer had. Truthfully, he never wanted to be here. He merely ran away and discarded pieces of himself he wished he was blind to. But devoid of any true friends, people he trusted with his life, he deep-down regretted escaping to a place so far from home.
Yet, even with the opportunity to reunite with his only true friend abroad, he couldn’t bear to face her. Not after so long. And not like this. Not while he’s inside this dilapidated effigy of his being. Can he even call her a true friend anymore? Does she even remember him, as much as he remembers her? He didn’t know how he would react if he finally reunited with her after so long. He missed her. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her so badly. But he didn’t want her to see him.
“You told me, didn’t you? To not run away. Because it’s my destiny, you told me not run away.”
Her words replayed a memory of a promise he once indirectly asked her to make. To not run away from destiny. Pathetic. If she were to see him in this state, just how loud would she laugh?
After his trudge through congestion, he eventually stalled his car outside the edifice of Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building, situated in the Civic Center neighborhood of Lower Manhattan. Shinichi couldn’t afford to further waste time on pointless mulling, whether he would cross paths with Haibara or not. Just because he was assigned to a case involving her workplace didn't necessarily mean he’d encounter her. To assume he would is fantastical.
He didn’t take long to scan his fingerprints. Kudo, Shinichi – FBI Consultant displayed on the screen. 10:30 AM. His worst time yet. Facetious, playful comments here and there about his tardiness thrown around by the front desk; whatever. He set off 30 miles north-slightly-east, for Veasna Pharmaceuticals in Tarrytown, Westchester. Then, almost an hour passed.
“Took you long enough, Kudo,” he said, greeting Shinichi who just stepped out of his car, parked outside the company’s headquarters. The fingertips of both Raziel’s hands held onto the rim of two plastic cups, their liquid contents dark brown in color. “I got here ages ago. Killed some time—saved you some time—by reading the case files. I’m an expert now.”
“Idiot, did you even drop by the office today? What about your attendance?” Shinichi graciously accepted the coffee offered by his partner. “…But thanks.”
Raziel you’re-welcome’d by lifting, withholding, and then dropping his bangs with brown strands that almost reached his hazel irises. “Attendance is optional, Kudo.” No it isn’t. “Anyway, we’ll start with meeting—who was it—Dr. Allie Harper, right?”
They strolled through the automatic glass doors, into the sleek lobby of the pharmaceutical’s headquarters. Its spacious area dipped its toes in natural light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, half-illuminated and half-shadowed. Employees milled about, few and far between, in and out corridors, with furrowed brows and hurried footsteps. Dr. Charles Farray’s death had unquestionably left a void to fill.
Words were exchanged at the reception desk to announce the FBI’s involvement in solving his murder. Requesting the presence of Dr. Allie Harper, one of the pharmacy’s lead scientists who happened to be a potential key witness, they made themselves comfortable in a secluded section of the lobby.
Shinichi and Raziel sat shoulder to shoulder, coffee cups in hand, facing Dr. Harper across the table. She sank into the plush of velvet upholstery, her tied-back hair enclosed by the chair’s wingback curves. She pushed back her glasses slightly.
“Everyone’s talking about it,” said Dr. Harper. “We’re really shocked. Murdered in his car, no less. It was a robbery, wasn’t it?”
“Most likely,” said Shinichi, taking a sip of his coffee. “Still, according to his call logs, it looks like you were the last person Dr. Farray spoke to yesterday.” April 2nd, Friday, 2:30 PM - 2:36 PM. His time of death, which had been kept secret from the public, was estimated to be around 4:00 PM. “So, what was the conversation?”
Straightforward and to the point, his tone was almost accusatory. Imperceptible beads of sweat trailed down her forehead, half an inch from damping her spectacles’ temples. She continued as necessary. “Dr. Farray reminded us—wanted us, the preclinical department, to have our preclinical test reports ready for clinical trials by Monday next week. Have it there on his desk the day he’s back from his Hong Kong trip, which he was supposed to depart for last night.”
“And how did he sound on the phone? Anxious, as if his life was in danger? Did it rouse any suspicion? What do you think, Dr. Harper?”
“Anything wrong with his voice, no. He sounded quite normal. But suddenly pressuring us to finish the report? I’d say that was a first from him.” She leaned into her seat, folded her arms, and traced the shivering branches outside. “Actually, there was this sort of beeping right before I ended the call.”
Hm. Shinichi cupped his chin and fell into deep thought, leaving the other two participants of the discussion at a standstill. This sudden silence was a habit he’d acquired eight years ago. The glass-encased lobby permeated with an awkward quiet.
“Out of curiosity,” Raziel bumped in, “what exactly are you guys trying to develop?”
“Well, if you’re interested…” Dr. Harper cleared her throat, pushing her glasses snuggly onto her nose bridge. “In summary, we’re in the process of developing a breakthrough drug that could slow down cancer. The drug targets a specific protein pathway that causes the active proliferation of cancer cells. By inhibiting this pathway, it slows down the growth of cancer a significant amount. And unlike traditional chemotherapy drugs that often harm healthy cells along with cancerous ones, this new drug is more specific and selective. It should kill only cancerous cells. Patients should experience less severe, if any, side effects.”
“Isn’t that… unbelievably ridiculous? You’re saying your new drug is about to change literally everything? Why in the world aren’t you guys making headlines?”
“We did,” she chuckled, red tinging her cheeks. “We were on the news, twice or thrice. Well, it's far from something as wonderful as a cure.” Her shoulders raised briefly. “We’re only delaying the inevitable.”
Shifting his gaze, Raziel leaned to whisper into his partner’s ear, though his naturally loud voice did nobody any favors. “So, Kudo? Did that give you any new information?” Dr. Harper clicked her tongue at his failure to communicate in secret. She thought he was genuinely intrigued. Even if he wasn’t, he should at least try to fake it.
“Maybe,” said Shinichi. “Dr. Harper, where were you after 2:36 PM, after the phone call?”
“The computer lab,” she blurted, pointing towards the hallway that leads to it. “After the call, my colleague and I were busy finalizing our report together until we decided to call it a day at eight thirty in the evening. You can ask my colleague; she’ll vouch for me.” She held a defiant stare. “We went our separate ways afterwards. I left early to drink with some friends at a bar in Martine Avenue until eleven, and went home.”
Raziel recorded every detail in his little detective notebook, alternating his glances between his scribbles and the questioned individual. Not once did he nudge his partner; a sign otherwise used to convey the interrogatee was lying. Drawing from Shinichi’s experience as a great detective, she hadn’t triggered any alarms either. She told the truth. Or at the very least, she hadn’t told any lies. However, it wouldn’t hurt to expand the questioning to include the subject’s friends later.
“And your colleague?” said Raziel. His pause allowed Shinichi to take two nervous sips. “Where is she?”
“Ah, I’ll get her for you.” She thumped her hands together. “My colleague is probably in her office on Do Not Disturb right now—gosh, it’s like Dr. Farray’s death didn’t affect her at all—anyway, wait here.”
Dr. Harper vanished from sight, just out of view, leaving behind tapping clicks of her heels on marble as she withdrew behind the corridor walls. Ding. Elevator doors opened with a soft chime before they swiftly closed. Everything was quiet again. But not inside Shinichi’s head.
He off-looked to the side, into the panoramic landscape. Delicate buds of ornamental cherry and magnolia adorned the tree branches with clusters of white, pink, and purple shades. Butterflies fluttered, attracted to the flowers; birds flitted about in the canopy. Yet, his leg jounced restlessly. His grip unknowingly strangled his cup.
“What’s the matter, Great Detective?” said Raziel as he playfully tilted his chair back, putting pressure on its hind legs. “If you’ve got something on your mind, say it.”
“Hm? Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “Was just thinking about how Dr. Farray’s murder could be tied to—”
“Lie.”
Shinichi palmed his forehead, sensing a headache coming. He’d need to come up with a better excuse than that. Perhaps something that undeniably crossed his mind during the drive here.
“…Fine. Okay.” Deep breaths. “Honestly, my mind got preoccupied with silly things. So,” uh, “earlier today, my son complained about his shoes. Too small, he said. I promised to buy him new ones, so I was thinking which store I should—”
“Lie. You know, Kudo, you’re not as great of a liar as you think you are.” He closed his notebook, laced up the band secure around its covers. “Your tells are painfully obvious. No different—no, even more so than the sociopathic serial killers in that organization you took down.”
Shinichi’s muscles and bones jolted from his chair, a few degrees away from toppling over, rejecting any semblance of thought seeking to establish itself within his prefrontal cortex. He clenched his fist, scrunching the collar of the man beside him into dense broadcloth, knuckles grazing jaw. Despite his sudden, almost misplaced burst of anger, his voice was low and slow and colder than the air-conditioned circulation that besieged them.
“…What’s your problem, Greyson?”
Piercing ice blue confronted the warm hazel. It was a look Shinichi had left far behind since he became a loving husband and a loving father. Never thought to resurface; a look from the time he hunted down the organization, from the time his finger squeezed the black iron trigger and executed the man who made him Edogawa Conan, once upon a time. He couldn’t begin to reason how Raziel Greyson infiltrated under his skin so easily. He despised it. His thoughts should be his own, and no one else’s. No one had the right to interfere.
But Shinichi’s expression slackened not long after looking at Raziel’s unbothered countenance. His partner’s lack of response provided him much-needed composure, as he slowly released his hold. “My bad. You were too annoying. Made me overreact.”
“It’s not necessarily a bad thing, you know? Not being able to lie; it’s just synonymous with being honest,” said Raziel, tidying the collars of his button-up shirt. “Besides, you could've simply said you wanted to keep it a secret and I’d leave it at that. You have the right to remain silent, as they say. So why didn't you? Why did you want to lie so much? Who were you really lying to?”
Shinichi partial-chuckled. “Cut that overly profound crap. Haven’t you learnt any manners? It’s just common sense—to let people be, if you know they’re lying about something.”
“Huh, interesting.” Raziel shot an obstinate smirk. “Didn’t expect that from you, who used to be all about chasing a single truth.”
“Oh, come on.” A snicker stealthily escaped the detective’s lips. “Did you watch an interview of me during high school or something? What a low blow.”
“What can I say? I’m not one to set standards.”
Ding. Shinichi perked up at the chime as it punctuated the conversation’s last sentence with a full stop. Two distinct footfalls on marble flooring audibly exited the elevator, following the extended pine-wood paneling, stopping before the walls turned into natural stone as the hallway ended and merged with the lobby’s expanse. Dr. Harper pointed fingers at the FBI duo, directing the other scientist towards the line of questioning before stepping back, as if transferring the burden of involvement onto her colleague.
The other scientist materialized into view, donning a lab coat that covered her maroon wool-swathed figure. Strawberry blonde locks cascaded in waves, undulating, as her heels almost perforated the hard crystalline with each step. She strode, her pace strong, her head high. Then she paused. Shinichi couldn’t believe his eyes, but not nearly as much as she couldn’t believe hers. They stared into each other's eyes for what felt like an eternity. Ocean blue met emerald teal.
Her determination was exactly as tangible, exactly as severe as the last time he had seen her in person. He had anticipated their reunion, until he didn’t. It was all too sudden, and all too late. The writhing ache and pain stabbing at his chest, a feeling all too familiar, reignited and brought back to life, cramping his ribs. One vivid memory overshadowed any others, even his photographic ones.
It was eight years ago, when his eyes caught a glimpse of her unique auburn strands rippling through the departure lounge, from beyond the security checks, as she stole cold occasional glances at her red suitcase trailing behind her. With each step she took, she moved further away. Further and further away from him. She didn’t stop. She didn’t pause. She didn’t slow down and look around, even as he yelled her name tens, hundreds, thousands of times, Haibara echoing throughout the airport. He merely watched, helplessly, as his other half dissolved into the crowd seemingly without rhyme or reason.
Back then, he found himself without answers. He never reached a conclusion. It was the first time he experienced what he thought was loss.
In one corner of his heart, Shinichi hated her for what she did, for how abruptly she left him, for the questions she left him to solve on his own. But in another, he was confused, puzzled more than anything. He craved answers, desperate for them—the answers he could never figure out alone, without her. It was her choice to leave, and he wanted to respect that, but being insufferably hung up on her, despite Ran, despite his friends, despite his family, despite everything, was out of his control.
Eight years had passed as he went on to finish his studies, secure a job, marry, and start a family. He faked some smiles and laughs along the way. And yet, thoughts of her lingered. He could never truly stop thinking about her. The reality is that he would grieve forever.
And one day, after eight agonizing years, she appeared before him as a blurry, out-of-focus polaroid from his past. Miyano Shiho smiled, like she was completely innocent, like she had done nothing wrong in this world. She smiled a gentle smile that pricked needles into what remained of his gaping heart.
“It’s been a while, Kudo-kun.”